When I see barley fields under a waxing moon,
there is a long, inconsolable hour
like when a fisherman is caught by a rip tide
and knows his skiff will never make shore.
It isn’t the sorrow of poverty of harvest.
The moon isn’t grieving for anyone.
Crickets scape weak weak weak every night,
and the moon sends down undiminished light.
after Saigyo
