I’ve lived for untold autumns here
on Cold Mountain
alone and carefree, uttering songs
to myself.
My makeshift door doesn’t shut yet
there’s calm and quiet.
A spring is murmuring fresh
ambrosia in its natural flow.
Within my chamber of rock, an
earthen cauldron boils
pine pollen potions, cypress elixirs,
and aromatic herbal brews.
When I’m feeling hungry, I merely snack
on perennial weeds.
My point of view is so agreeable, I
rest on precarious stone.
105-tanahashi; 193-red pine; 194-rouzer; 193-henricks; 21-snyder
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