Just as I am dealing with the final stages of buying an apartment - all the paperwork just drives me nuts, my Skype buddy, Morris Rolland, who I haven't chatted with for ages, sends me this thought in the form of verse today:

Reclusion, Late Summer

To this place of retreat
the world does not follow;
but many old ailments
heal here.

I polish words
of old poems;
view mountains,
and sleep outside my hut.

Colored clouds
cross the setting sun;
cicadas ring
in the leaves of trees.

With this
my heart again knows happiness;
and who would have thought it,
without wine or money.

Yao Ho (fl. 831)

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