《賓州州大的秋色》
秋風起，賓州大學的池塘偶有人際。
蕭瑟的蓮瓣，金色的南瓜，
斑斕的樹葉，搖曳的狗尾巴草。
下午四點的雲早已吞下驕陽。
隻有魚的溫感還記得，
夏末竟是昨天。
水麵上蓮瓣的浮影連成片—
像一封被水浸透的信，
字跡暈開昨日的完整，模糊的痕。
開始枯去的葦枝，依著斑斕的樹葉，
無聲地在風裏練習告別。
木刻的浮雕開始掉皮了，
反而多了幾分柔軟的韻味——
像某些故事，磨損之後，
才真正屬於自己。
我坐在聽鳥鳴的亭子，很久。
數著自己的心跳聲，
等不來的驚喜終究沒能成為記憶。
用鋼筋固定住的枯樹，
被動地詮釋身後的價值。
窗口裏看去的風景，
像極了流動的人生—
姍姍而至的承認，
總要被歲月打磨後，才駐足心底。
十年以後再來，同樣的花園，別樣的感悟。
原來不是池塘變了，
是看池塘的人，
終於能在蕭瑟裏，聽清自己的聲音。
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.
