Two monks were traveling
To a town some miles away—
A journey that would take them
A good part of the day.
 
They stepped mindfully;
Their voices wasted no words.
The only sound they heard
Was the singing of the birds.
 
Suddenly crossing their path
Rushed a rippling stream—
Its current on the rough side
(Or so it did seem).
 
Before the flowing current,
A woman stood—waiting—
Assessing the situation—
In her mind debating
 
Whether to turn around
Or to cross the gurgling water.
Her foot slipped on the moss
And she began to totter.
 
The older monk caught her,
And so she wouldn’t get wet,
He carried her across the stream
With no hint of regret.
 
On dry land again,
He carefully set her down.
She thanked him and continued
To the local town.
 
As the monks continued
On their resolute path,
The younger monk complained—
His words were tinged with wrath:
 
“How could you pick her up?
That’s against the rules.
You make us look suspicious—
Like lascivious fools.”
 
On and on he grumbled,
Talking without cease,
Depriving them of calm,
And giving them no peace.
 
The older monk grew tired
Of the ranting and the raving.
Concerned about the way
His companion was behaving,
 
He stopped and said, “My friend,
I carried her—I know—
Across the stream and put her
Down LONG ago.
 
“You don’t like the manner
In which I applied goodwill;
But you, dear friend, are the one
Who carries the woman still.”
 
They walked on in silence;
Neither felt distraught—
The older monk smiling,
The younger deep in thought.

- by Bob B