In this country there is rarely a fierce hurricane
That easily destroys that which has taken
generations to create
Here, all things move towards their own dispersal,
Trees covered with mustard seeds
As a cold front approaches.
Tonight the cheerless moon
Shines on us all for good or ill
Some people are enthralled by shadows
Penumbras, glints, glimpses, as am I,
But others conceal their secret griefs hastily
And pretend that all is well, little knowing
That the glooms of November
Can call on us at any time of year
That suits the moon's spreading pall.