Doug Anderson: Farthest from the Sun

Soon the time of year to check the inner flame.
Wavering or not. My heart,
the guttering candle of the Chinese poets
whose friends have all traveled beyond the river.
That is to say, they are dead or dying
and no one is left who remembers me as a boy.
This is where the work begins.
What did it mean to have lived in the time I did?
To see the wheel of history turn one complete turn
and know I may not see it come round again.
This is where I begin to let go of things
that don’t work anymore, that are useless
in the face of a silence that grows heavier daily.
The mountain seems more of a mountain.
The stream, more of a stream. You have to
look hard to find the little man about to cross
the bridge in the Chinese landscape.
On the other side, the trees fading into mist.