For F., always, and To Li Po, Poet

Yellow the willow by your mountain pool,

one golden leaf following your skiff

as you painted brush strokes for these words

twelve hundred years ago.

　　”Shall goodwill ever be secure?

　　I watch the long road

　　of the River of Stars.”

Grieved at the uselessness of war,

prey to the whims of court,

you were exiled to this quiet water.

Some say that you embraced the moon in it

and died.

Twelve hundred years, Li Po!

“Shall goodwill ever be secure?”

If it be true that you were drowned

in the silver of your sorrows,

you rose with the lotus, immortality,

dripping from your shoulders.

I, too, must watch, Li Po,

head raised to the long road

of the River of Stars.