Staying home looking into the valley

The next day is always different. No use to follow or to build on this magnificent experience I happened to have yesterday. It has been sheer luck! As I was feeding the birds this morning i got snow white and wet, moving through the melting white garden bushes. I would have to be quick in searching my view close to home. I climbed the whitened track up to the Hut, which I had not opened since winter had fallen. For the first time since long, I sat down and looked into the valley far below. Just for a short while, as I was not dressed warm enough to stay longer.


But meanwhile the Hut called me clearly to return soon and bring a  candle and my notebook. The Tao of poetry drips on the roof. The chimney’s down in the valley are writing in curling letters on the desire to stay near the fire. Small flocks of finches are waving over the white gabled roofs of our small hillside neighbourhood. Could I just stay longer and read the bare mountain hut poetry of Wang Wei, Meng Haoran, Su Tung Po, Basho. But in spite of all desire and inspiration I took the old broom, cleaned the floor and closed the Hut.

In the snow on the front terrace, I stayed another while, looking down over the valley and Carlsheaven, still covered in white. I will stay up here, there’s bread enough till next week, I said to myself. Back inside where W. is dressing herself warmly to make photo’s in the garden, I learned about the death of former president Richard Von Weiszäcker. Such an eminent man vanished now...I remember and honor this great and respectable German here. A few moments ago, again I stood outside near the front terrace. The night is cold. The snow is still there. Over the silent harbourtown in the hazy night sky, smiles a clear pale moon.