The Way that can be named is not The Way.*

This cannot
be said, only
felt.

An old dog
sleeping alone
dreaming
of chased cats
past;

the red sun
rising like
a kept promise
in the east;

hot, brown
liquid in a
simple yellow
cup;

a woman's ***
surrounding
who you are
until you know;

the lulling coo
of mourning doves
lamenting.

Whatever
orders disorder
yet allows chaos
and makes
it good.

Whatever renders
the ordinary
extraordinary.

The inexplicably
deep awareness
of beauty in
an impersonal
universe.

A way to be
and a way to see

how to live
another day.

   ~mce