I've been told to find a teacher, but
no mere mortal who weighs the world
with gilded, golden scales.

I've been told to kiss the feet
of anyone who has walked between
this world and that.

She told me that it's almost winter.
Already, icy fingers claw up my straightened spine.
"Breathe out," she says, "and when you can't breathe in,

you are dead." But still the breath comes mechanically
in out in out in out in out in out in out in out in out in
and I laugh at the absurdity of it all.

After a talk about the moon in a pond, with
its reflection being obscured by ripples,
and only calmed by a tamed mind,

the others rush to the food to fill the void.
But the sky is clear, the moon is full,
and the pond sits gently rippling, waiting to be tamed.