I’m growing fatter at each winter’s coming. My wineglass filling up again As I sit behind the wall of my garden. I have renewed my interest in reading Chinese poetry of farming and poverty. While I read, I see myself standing along the roadway As the emperor is carried past. I bow in tattered clothing And return to till his fields. A bowl of fish heads and rice, If the village fishermen are lucky. How lucky I am without war And hunger to dog me at my heels. And how good my wine On this warm November night: The garden cleaned. My rake Untangled of weeds, washed, and hung On the bent-up nail.