The winter night is dark and cold. The weatherman says
we're in for trouble. What do I care?
The woodbox is full, the cast-iron stove is glowing,
I've got a cup of tea. A pot of water simmers on the stove.
Beside my chair: Pao Chao, Ryokan, Po Chu-i,
Wang Wei, The Book of Songs, some pencils and paper.
Let the wind howl, let the snow come,
Tonight I'll sit here, as Ryokan did two hundred years
before me, quietly reading poems from long ago. David Budbill