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life in the clouds that shroud a rainforest mountain is languid life
all sound is muffled by mist; even birdcall echoes as from afar
mold and mushrooms thrive
keeping the cottage and its contents dry is impossible
my paintings warp and ripple, my books buckle
suchness is this damp world dripping
mists shrouding
then scrolling back
I’m living in a Chinese painting …
and here, here
the vast no-thing called I
knows no damp or dry
~
echoes from emptiness 
There is a typical, or rather (‘typical’ sounds hum-drum) beautiful and delicate ChineseTaoist/zen atmosphere in your poem… the little man (or woman) somewhere lost in the landscape, the ripples o greenery and rocks filling the background.
Any comment to your poem will sound pretentious and pale in comparison with the visual, auditory and esthetic feelings evinced by it. (I’ve had difficulty in writing this self-conscious and pedantic comment… )
Everyone wants to be a poet…
Oh my! Thank you dear AM – I never realized it was a poem!
I love that you have entered the landscape so sensuously … you are “the little man” among the mists …
Your comment is wonderful, thank you.
~ ml