Afternoon Repose            

On the green mound, the embroidered yellow flowers,
the constantly shifting sun and shadow–

A basket under her arm, a young daughter
looking at a butterfly flying away, tears in her eyes–

By the front road, willow leaves already green,
and the azalea blossoms I saw yesterday, scattering–

how desolate the farmhouses of late spring,
inside the shut wattle gates, only the sounds of chickens and dogs.

In the field, the blowing wind hurries the sun;
in the valley, the cries of birds subsiding.

On the ground where I lie, moisture is rising,
the unnameable sorrow of the late sun descending.