ZAZEN

As the pale light of dawn
bleeds through the shōji
we eat a thin gruel
of rice with a pickled plum
from black lacquered bowls

the wind blows cold
we hear the lonesome cries
of wintering gulls
as a temple bell resounds
and a train rattles by

a monk in an indigo robe
strikes a meditator's shoulders
with a stick of cherry wood
fiercely repeatedly
until it snaps!

here in the twilight zendo
things are not what they seem
once false move can send you
plummeting through the thin ice

here in this frozen landscape
three monks in rags
feet bound with straw
are crossing over

we must be vigilant at all times
there are fissures that are perilous
I drop a stone into a bottomless well
a ruined house leaks moonlight

all signs read no way out
there are shackles of every form and no form
on the frozen dune
we climb to see no one

I stare at a black tile
and see the ten thousand arms of Kannon
we walk the thin ice
with great trepidation

we are nearly over
to the other shore
when I hear a crack
in the ice

here in this twilight zendo
no sound
no river
no ice

round midnight
we take our zafus
from the meditation hall
and go out onto the verandah
for night sitting

five of us in a line
overlooking
an immaculately raked
gravel garden
backed by tall cedars

we sit in zazen
and breathe in
and out
the cold
night air

I see the silhouette
of the temple gate
against the starlit sky
the shadow of the eaves
on the white sand

the priest today
talked about non-duality
no separation
but I hear you out there
by the willow weeping