As I walked home after work this afternoon, I noticed a rich, earthy fragrance lingering here in the woods. It was a heavy scent that I associate with Autumn. It seems as though every season lends its own perfume to this river, these hills. I then thought of the Poet of the Fragrant Mountain, Bai Juyi... from there my mind went to one of his poems, written in 833 A.D. It is one of my favorites, and it reminds me of my own little home, so much beloved.
The Sky-Blue Yurt
The finest felt from a flock of a thousand sheep, stretched over a frame shaped like the extended bows of a hundred soldiers.
Ribs of the healthiest willow, its color dyed to saturation with the freshest indigo.
When the typhoon blows it does not shake, when a storm pours it gets even stronger.
With a roof that is highest at the center, it is a four-sided circle without corners.
With its side door open wide, the air inside remains warm.
Though it casts a lonely shadow during nights brilliantly illuminated by the moon, its value doubles in years when the winter is bitterly cold.
Softness and warmth envelop the felt hangings and rugs; the tinkling of jade enfolds the sounds of pipes and strings.
It is most convenient after the earth has been covered with frost, and it is the best match when snow fills the sky.
Positioned at an angle is the low chair for singing, evenly disposed are the small mats for dancing.
When I have leisure time I lift open the curtain and enter the yurt, and when I am drunk I wrap myself up in a cover and sleep there.
Behind me an iron lamp-stand that bears a candle; a silver incense censer that flames is suspended from the ceiling.
Kept deep within is the flame that lasts till dawn; stored inside is the fragrant smoke that lasts till evening.
When the animal-shaped charcoal is close by, fox furs can be cast aside.
When the ink-stone is warm it melts the frozen ink and when the pitcher is heated it becomes a stream in springtime.
An orchid canopy will barely attract a hermit and a thatched hut is inferior for meditating.
(But invited to my yurt) an impoverished monk responds with praise, and a threadbare scholar stays in place, unwilling to leave.
Guests are greeted with it, descendants will hand it down to posterity.
The Wang family boasts of their antiques, but they have nothing to equal this Sky-Blue Yurt.
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2 comments:
I love that it is beginning to smell of autumn. Woodsmoke fills the air and there's a certain nip to the air here in the Fens. Sweaters and woolens are starting to come out of their hibernation and the light is making everything golden. As I sit here now in my study I can see it creeping across my poor bedraggled garden.
I will try and take some pictures in the coming days so that you can see how it is here.
A sweet day to you.
Bees
Yes, I would very much like to see your photos, Bees! Thank you for visiting and bright wishes to you.
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