Overgrown Garden

My house is at the foot of the green cliff,

My garden, a jumble of weeds I no longer bother

    to mow.

New vines dangle in twisted strands

Over old rocks rising steep and high.

Monkeys make off with the Mountain fruits,

The white Heron crams his bill with fish

    from the pond,

While I, with a book or two of the Immortals,

Read under the trees–mumble, mumble.

–Cold Mountain

Published by

an ole smelly goat

nothing interesting

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