This winter day br the wind is making ripples br even between the stones at the water's edge br and the mist almost hides the tops br of the mountains br br only I am listening to the heron's cry br br I brought my brush and pen and paper and ink block br but there is no poem here; br Nature is hiding her secrets today br like a silent woman in her winter coat. br br I could write how last summer br we stood here laughing together br at the reflection of the moon br trembling in our bowls of rice wine br while the candles drifted down the river br in their paper boats br br like this memory br br but I shall walk back now br through the winter woods br where the thin trees br are secretly, secretly br preparing for Spring.