A Pond makes waves, and then, where does the light go?
Retort: Where are the waves of your pond in your childhood?
A monk says, “What are your own waves in the pond?”
I say, “How can you see the pond ponderable in your waves?”
A humble Nostalgia says at South Mountain, “A mirror makes a figure, then, where does the light go? A monk retorts, “Where is the figure of you in your childhood?” Another adds later, “What is your own figure in the mirror?” Words pile up and up. Language blows the skirts of philosophy flared. Mind tricks. Doubt dances. Mirror laughs. Monks wonder. Where are the lotus petals gone? Bob Dylan says, “Blowing in the wind!” We see with light, but also lose it by light. Mirror can be a Miró, losing “or,” not ampersand. Thought is a misplaced dislocation or just a newness. Light is the lost time out of sight, but still enchanting with tipsy wave trills, I disenchant Buddha.