Classic Poem

Cold penetrates to the river's shore,
at the edge of sand;
warmth is in the hearts of flowers,
and under leaves.
Brushed with snow—tower and terrace;
they take in lamps from the courtyard.
Toward evening the red gate is closed tight.
A banner hangs beside the green plaque,
low, brushing ground;
dancing sleeves and tiny shoes
she's not put on tonight.
Fingers cold on metal blades—
incense warming blue-green blanket—
too lazy to cut out
good-luck words for spring.