Parched
Stories define us, it’s true. And they
matter, though they always leave so much out. I
like it that way, keep telling them to
desert, and desert
keeps filling in whatever it is we’re missing.
For months now death has felt frail and far
away. Breath surprises me. The usual morning ridgeline surprises me, sun-
lit wasp wing, lichen- stained bark jade-
green. Breath pulses, pulses, pulses. So far away
death. How will I ever find my way back home there?
The desert never mentions arrival. Solar
heat, sky, dust- light, a few parched colors: they
rinse so far through me there’s nowhere
else to go. I set out.
Snow goes on falling, flurried all day through it- self. Once
things get simple enough, there's no understanding or even recognizing
them, like this flurried snow nothing more than
flurried snow falling, falling through all our knowing. Or my face in a mirror
gazing out, gazing out at itself utterly. Who knows
how far I’ve come. But to keep moving, sometimes you need things simple.
If we could not speak, not share the bright clarity of whatever
occurs
with us, who could bear it? The day is all yellow desert
here, blue sky. Less and less
happens. How is it there’s so much more to say?
Autumn-worn desert grass in late sun, its scratches of
light horizoned against blue
sky: how could this routine sight feed me
so perfectly? Feed me, feed me, and keep hunger wide-
open? Death lives in us
like this: one more way desert unfurls its distances.
Light thinks through things in its own way, ignites
every detail of their every
surface, and the eye opens those bright surfaces all the way
inside me: mesquite bloom, cottonwood leaf-
shimmer, sky. They say beauty is only skin deep, mere surface, but light
knows how deep surfaces go.
The desert knows how it is, the empty
parched desert. I bow to rain.
I wake every morning the same person. Same life-
history, same mind, same eyes
looking. Some- times, when the boredom seems almost endless, I
walk out among mountains the same
mountains, sky
sky, and I understand them perfectly.
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David Hinton’s many translations of classical Chinese poetry have earned wide acclaim for creating compelling contemporary poems that convey the texture and density of the originals. Hinton has received many national awards, including a Guggenheim Fellowship, both major awards for poetry translation, and most recently, a lifetime achievement award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. Learn more.