In an exposed room
of Zen and a pen,
I appreciate
the warm spring night
with a light bulb
     reflection
in the glass
of the present
above the head
of the seated lady
who sparkles
while holding
an empty vase,
and shifting my gaze,
the miniature birds
perch quietly,
as the table shakes
from the actions
of scribbling,
so the smiling man
with the raised sword
holds a pearl
by his heart
and one true self
reads, "The Joy
Of Dirt."