On Cold Mountain
I’ve lived out tens of thousands of years
on Cold Mountain. Given to the seasons,
I vanished among forests and cascades,
gazed into things so utterly themselves.
No one ventures up into all these cliffs
hidden forever in white mist and cloud.
It’s just me, thin grass my sleeping mat
and azure heaven my comforting quilt:
happily pillowed on stone, I’m given to
heaven and earth changing on and on.