After “Yellow Crane Tower”

How convenient for Cui Hao

that the one who left was an immortal.

If  only we could all have his good fortune.

When I looked, I saw you perched

between the wings of the crane. I was so shortsighted;

it didn’t even cross my mind

that the crane might not return,

that this was not one of  those annual migrations—

the sort of thing where you leave,

and after a few months of gathering stories

as a bird collects branches,

you come back, with enough

for a new nest.

I went to the supermarket

to pick up some nuts and birdseed.

I wandered aimlessly through the aisles,

at a loss for what to buy.

What kind of  birdseed would entice a crane?

Sunflower seemed too desperate:

fields of green stalks,

the sun above,

and—what else?—

a shadow at the horizon.

Nowadays, I don’t spend as much time looking

for a crane in the distance.

It will come when it wants to;

it won’t ever come.

Cui Hao’s poem ends with the sunset, melancholy

along the misty river. But melancholy is not quite right.

I will keep searching for a word to capture the feeling,

in the fragrant heat of summer,

of  only having autumn on the mind.