Frost falls on the Chiangnan region in November.
Grasses and trees do not blossom,
only the old plum tree beside the stream.
Its trunk and branches are sharply stiff like iron.
Its buds burst under the chilly wind.
Thousands of flowers bloom like snow.
The immortals of Mount Peng-lai come down from the Jade terraces in moonlight.
The petals of pure spirit look like silver.
The sea mist cannot cut the message from Mount Lo-fo (a site famous for plum blossoms).
When I see this plum tree I know it to be a friend in the cold winter.
But my wandering life has frosted my temples.
In your home you have a full jar of Autumn dew wine.
You let me drink a hundred cups.
When exhilarated I took off my hat and painted freely.
I clap my hands and shout for joy to have painted this wonderful plum tree.
When I awakened from a drunken sleep the birds were singing and in flight.
The incense had stopped burning.
I got up and held the rock outside the door.
White clouds spread over thousands of acres.