《宾州州大的秋色》
秋风起，宾州大学的池塘偶有人际。
萧瑟的莲瓣，金色的南瓜，
斑斓的树叶，摇曳的狗尾巴草。
下午四点的云早已吞下骄阳。
只有鱼的温感还记得，
夏末竟是昨天。
水面上莲瓣的浮影连成片—
像一封被水浸透的信，
字迹晕开昨日的完整，模糊的痕。
开始枯去的苇枝，依着斑斓的树叶，
无声地在风里练习告别。
木刻的浮雕开始掉皮了，
反而多了几分柔软的韵味——
像某些故事，磨损之后，
才真正属于自己。
我坐在听鸟鸣的亭子，很久。
数着自己的心跳声，
等不来的惊喜终究没能成为记忆。
用钢筋固定住的枯树，
被动地诠释身后的价值。
窗口里看去的风景，
像极了流动的人生—
姗姗而至的承认，
总要被岁月打磨后，才驻足心底。
十年以后再来，同样的花园，别样的感悟。
原来不是池塘变了，
是看池塘的人，
终于能在萧瑟里，听清自己的声音。
The Pond at Penn State in Autumn
Autumn wind rises — at the pond of Penn State,
there are traces of people now and then.
Wilted lotus petals, golden pumpkins,
leaves ablaze, the foxtails swaying.
By four o’clock the clouds have swallowed the sun.
Only the warmth of the fish remembers
that late summer was just yesterday.
On the water, drifting petals join into one shadow —
like a letter soaked and blurred,
its handwriting smudged, yesterday dissolving.
The reeds begin to yellow, leaning on the painted leaves,
silently rehearsing their farewells in the wind.
Even the wooden carvings peel and crack —
yet gain a softer grace,
like stories that, once worn,
finally belong to the heart that bore them.
I sit long in the gazebo listening to birds.
Counting my own heartbeat,
the surprise I waited for never came —
and so could not become memory.
The dead tree, fastened with steel rods,
interprets its own worth by simply standing.
Through the window, the view keeps moving —
so like a life in motion,
where belated understanding
must be polished by time before it rests within.
Ten years later I’ll return —
the same garden, another heart.
It wasn’t the pond that changed,
but the one who watched it,
who at last can hear, in the autumn hush,
the clear voice of his own being.
