even between the stones at the water’s edge
and the mist almost hides the tops
of the mountains
only I am listening to the heron’s cry
I brought my brush and pen and paper and ink block
but there is no poem here;
Nature is hiding her secrets today
like a silent woman in her winter coat.
I could write how last summer
we stood here laughing together
at the reflection of the moon
trembling in our bowls of rice wine
while the candles drifted down the river
in their paper boats
like this memory
but I shall walk back now
through the winter woods
where the thin trees
are secretly, secretly
preparing for Spring.