Evening Poetry, April 21

The Mountain

by Jane Hirshfield

One moment, the mountain is clear

in strong morning sunlight. The next, vanished in a fog.

I return to Tu Fu, afraid to look up again

from my reading and find in the window moonlight–

but when I do, the fog is still there,

and only the ancient poet’s hair has turned gray

while a single wild goose passed him, silently climbing.

You can find this poem in After.

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