She hears beyond ten,
the sound of one hand clapping.
Nothing comes to mind

Business of being
is busybodying self,
needs no false witness

Mental o' pedal
tormenter love to meddle
what a nomenclature  

Left behind, acres
of forest writings. None
the wiser on walls

This life's an empty
breath.  A garden ain't here to
impress or placate.

Dumpty the great fall,
silent while branches grew tall.  
Come hear, creator