The lazy days of summer end.
I must return to my true work,
touching up my scribbled notes
of wild mountain flowers,
of colored birds in the cool forest.
What should I report about the difficulty
of growing vegetables in July?
Somewhere in this busy march of hours
I must bring down my moon zither
and play what the waterfall
sang in May as she misted my face.
Winter travel plans with my wife,
where the grandchildren in the city
will be asking me for drawing lessons.
My ink pots have run low in the autumn heat.
Come back, lazy days of summer!