Returning to the Fields

Image, (based on a poem by T’ao Ch’ien)


When I was young,

I ran from the farm,

the road my only friend.


At twenty I got away,

bird in the branches

remembering a cage;

fish in the sea seeing

the edge of a tank. 


Yet, here I am again,

a room high above 

the street, thinking

of those fields. 


A cat yowls.

Geese fly.


So many years I

have been jailed 

in my freedom.


Suddenly, I feel 

myself again. 



2 thoughts on “Returning to the Fields

  1. Our freedoms arrive when we begin to savor our old imagined prisons. Our prisons return when we remember our former freedoms.

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