along ripples, through reed and rose,
its dark face
sensed in melting snows,
water enamored of no place,
its dark joy
vibrantly in the ice sculptor's smile,
the ice figures melting all the while.
Creative longing is
when comparing loses hold,
striving loses hold,
clinging loses hold,
intellect loses hold.
Unknowing, a lily is yet in bloom,
exuberance of perfume.
Intellect grasps, plans, always prepares,
divides, derides, and multiplies cares.
Intelligence is intelligence:
it has no plan or thought,
the pattern emerging and never sought.
Most simple, subtler than air,
it does everything and is beyond compare.
Intelligence is intelligence.
Oozing freshness like sap of spring,
as though a lake were glimmering
for the first time,
precise and piercing like a bird's cry
calm and embracing like the night,
passionate like green leaves,
There's no compass in me, no needle's turning,
but a wideness, a sky, a yearning
that feathers neither for that nor this,
drawing dawn's first kiss.
Treetops, lake, and dawn
and the creative longing