One way to make snow in mountains
is to leave the paper blank
and ink in the crags and pines—
a scholar’s hut by the flowing stream
such cold water for the tea—
but there are other ways. The mind
makes its equal signs and leaves them
unspoken. A world
much thought about but thinking
leaves no trace. The blankness
snow is to the child
wrapped in her blanket. The snow
there even in June, the summer snow—
I know you know. Imagine
the solstice is a gong that rings out
an echo song—nothing
lasts longer than morning fog. Clouds
can be made just like the snow is made.
And so of mist, vague dews.
So of water dropping off a cliff.
So of the steam curling up
as the cup cools. You leave
the page blank and ink in the dark
dream of pines. Law
of the pines
the scholars of the Song Dynasty
discovered, painting the world on silk,
on paper. A principle called
Mind, or One. Fire, or
Mite. You
children of snow and
clouds can make snow and clouds
for yourselves. Find
on the blank page some oblivion
and add water to the ink-stone. A
drop or two. Begin by painting dew.
Dan Beachy-Quick is a poet, essayist, and translator. His work has been supported by the Monfort, Lannan, and Guggenheim Foundations. He teaches at Colorado state University, where he is a University Distinguished Teaching Scholar.
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This article appeared in the print edition of the magazine with the headline The Song Dynasty.
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