(After Tu Fu) by George Freek
The window is frozen.
Morning hangs like an icicle
three weeks old.
The sun barely lights the day,
and it doesn’t stay.
Birds turn from an icy wind
to search for grubs.
They search the trees.
They search the dead leaves.
They almost seem to turn
hopelessly to the sky.
On the lake, boatmen stare
at the coming storm.
They row towards
the shore but make
little headway. Their hands
tightly grip the oars.
In this implacable weather,
they have no time to pray.
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