Classic Poem

The sun is in the West. Fishing boats,
pulled up on the sand, make us think
of distant places.
After the Spring rain,
petals cover the ground
and green bamboo
surrounds the house.
The flame of our candle
startles roosting swallows;
our voices mingle
with the croaking of the frogs.
Wine before us, we stroke our beards,
look at each other, lament
the passing of the years.