Now at the brink
of winter...ashen
bardo light of becoming.
Those who fear spaciousness
will shudder.
With the leaves gone,
there are no obstructions.

The red berry
tree appears
clad in mala
beads...I'm
compelled to
run them through
my fingertips...
while chanting:
blue, blue, blue
sky.

As if held on high,
a mind's mind
offers its staked
parameters.
Gone as a thought
entire...light at the
wings whose feathers
weigh worlds.
A creator is
created, without a
chance to decry
loneliness.
Till the reconciliation of
a mind's mind will
become supreme
bliss.

Up with wakefulness,
mid daydream.
Down with sleepfulness...
mid dream.
Sun of sun, Moon of moon...
mid I-I temple.

Now never parts
with itself...it's a
black and white
hole showering
itself with centripetal
points.

Winds are ways
wrought
by what they pass...
they digress,
change connotes alas.

A pearl
is the world's
ghost...refusing
to come out of
it's shell.

I listened intently
on the plant's
soil drink the
water poured...
seated before it,
The Medicine Buddha's
only thought.