They say that wildgeese, flying southward,
Here turn back, this very month . . .
Shall my own southward journey
Ever be retraced, I wonder?
. . . The river is pausing at ebb-tide,
And the woods are thick with clinging mist—
But tomorrow morning, over the mountain,
Dawn will be white with the plum-trees of home.
translated by Witter Bynner & Kiang Kang-hu
Being Present for the Moment
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Leonard Durso 
This is beautiful.
Glad you think so.
Reblogged this on The Cheesesellers Wife and commented:
The last line of this poem is echoing through my mind this afternoon……
Thank you for reblogging this poem.
You’re welcome….