A reader sends in this poem, by Charles Wright, heard on this morning’s Writer’s Almanac, on NPR:

After Reading T’ao Ch’ing, I wander Untethered Through the Short Grass

Dry spring, no rain for five weeks.
Already the lush green begins to bow its head and sink to its
         knees.

Already the plucked stalks and thyroid weeds like insects
Fly up and trouble my line of sight.

I stand inside the word here
         As that word stands in its sentence,
Unshadowy, half at ease.

Religion’s been in a ruin for over a thousand years.
Why shouldn’t the sky be tatters,
         lost notes to forgotten songs?

I inhabit who I am, as T’ao Ch’ing says, and walk about
Under the mindless clouds.
         When it ends, it ends. What else?

One morning I’ll leave home and never find my way back—
My story and I will disappear together, just like this.