Wait a Little, Until the Lotus Blooms South of the Stream

Who can share the quiet pleasures of my thatched cottage? Through the wall, I hear the smoke rising from the stone kettle's tea. The long day feels like a year, and the two swallows sleep. The clear breeze is like wine, and the flowers are all drunk. Soft sandals leave fresh steps, black hair beneath green silk shoes. I write idly in bold ink, wearing a white silk skirt. Wait a little, until the lotuses fill the stream to the south, then take a skiff ten miles to watch the red clouds.