A poet is surprised and inspired
By the fresh-opened plum blossoms
In a farmhouse’s front yard
To write a poem
About the fresh beauty of the blossoms
And the joy of the poet in spring.
A poet works, following his heart’s quick eye
And his mind’s soundless voice.
He tries to improve the rough draft
Of his poem day after day.
He has to wait and write,
Write and wait.
Until the poem is good.
By the time when
The poem has been brought to perfection,
Lo, the plum blossoms begin to fall.