This world’s a plum blossom
Bound to fall in its blooming.
Ten thousand leaves shivering
for the trunks sappy *****.

In attempts ill, to arrive:
A syllogism, best left unsaid.
Peace known only by the dead
And those that cease their striving

For the fall is easy, the road
Slippery. To abstract in words
Seems simple, yet birds
Don’t cling to their branched abode.

Nor should we, our own constructions
Lest we rouse misconception from its place
Kiss it square on its blemished face
And with it, bury our logical deductions.

For the Zazen mats are warmed
Not by the coals but fact:
The world is burning with emptiness
What’s left to do, but the dishes?