The Terrace in the Snow

In the golden twilight the rain

Was like silk threads. During the night

It cleared. The wind fell. It grew

Colder. My covers felt damp

And cold. Without my knowing it,

The snow had drifted into

The room like heaps of salt. At

The fifth watch, in the first flush

Of dawn, I close the curtain

Of the study. During the

Rest of the night I listen

To the ice, warping the colored

Tiles of the roof. In the morning

I sweep the Northern terrace

And look out at Saddle Peak.

It is clear of clouds and I

Can see both summits. Above

The village in the morning

Sunlight, crows begin to circle.

The mud of the streets is covered

With white. No cart track has marked it.

Ice has turned the shop roofs to

White jade. Snow has filled the doorways

With rice. The last cicadas

Have long since gone to earth. Now

They will have to dig a thousand

Feet deeper. Some clouds pile up,

The color of dried moss. My

Chest bothers me again.

I feel I have lost the

Ability to write.

The icicles on the caves

Drone in the wind like the swords

Of murderers.

                                    — Su Tung P’o

From One Hundred Poems from the Chinese, by Kenneth Rexroth.