Nothing’s new anymore. The vellum of a face
on which is written, “Forty years, half a century.”
I know that the volcano Laki caused a famine
in 1783, but I still haven’t seen Reykjavík.
I’m always in the same Zen garden trying to turn
the raked sand into an ocean. Why do I wonder
if I’ll ever be as elegant as the cheap Andean
handkerchief in my pocket? So many roses,
so little love. I stopped traveling, except in books.
Behind my father’s house is the bamboo grove
where he played. “You should observe
the faces of children,” Wittgenstein advised.
I think of you most on Saturday evenings,
after it’s rained, and the air in the garden is new.
—David Woo
This poem appears in David Woo’s book Divine Fire and first appeared in Raritan.