Grey November afternoon.
Very late for raking leaves.
Used to be a family affair,
with children running in the yard,
making mischief.
Now, it is a one-man job.
The autumn leaves
still smell fragrant.
The crisp cold air
still pleasing to breathe.
Toiling away, I seem to hear
the voice of late wife,
yelling at us,
barking orders.
Oh, how I used to hate this job.
Yard work is so exhausting.
Why is it that
even bad old days
seem so lovely now?

People never die
from the uncertainty of truth.
They die from the perceived
certainty of it.
Truth with a capital T
is a weapon that kills.
The Chinese have no such
notion of Truth.
They have the Tao.
But the Tao cannot be spoken.
The Tao is silent.

In my youth,
I listened to the rain in the singing houses,
under dim candle lights
in a big luxurious bed.
In my middle ages,
I listened to the rain
in a sojourner’s boat,
on the big river,
under heavy clouds,
as the geese made their forlorn calls
in the west wind.
Today, I listen to the rain
in the monks’ quarters.
My hair spotted with white.
In all these meetings and partings,
are there still any remaining feelings?
Rain keeps falling on my front steps.
Pittering, pattering all night,
until the day breaks.

The crackling fire last night
was playing our song,
punctuated
only by your sighs.
I miss you already!

Last night,
You made all the flowers in my garden bloom,
Right in the midst of winter.
You sorceress!

Steering my car
Like a boat in a
Grey, misty ocean,
I navigate alone
Through the dreamy highway,
Listening
to forlorn love songs
Through the white noise
Of falling rain
and busy wipers.
I think of you.

You asked me what Samsara is,
How can I begin to explain?
Samsara, Buddha says, is this cycle
Of continuity, without a visible end.
It’s the world of unenlightened existence,
Where beings wander and run around,
Blinded by ignorance; fettered by thirst.
But Samsara is also a perfume,
Desirable, enchanting.
It is the object of one’s adventure;
The teaser in the perpetual chase.
Samsara is this floating world,
Transient, yet beautiful;
Samsara is the house of dreams,
built by the delusions of the ego,
Fueled by endless wants.
Samsara is the realm of suffering—
This world of blood, sweat and tears.
Samsara is the playground of the enlightened,
Who holds heaven and earth just as dear.
Samsara is the opposite of Nirvana,
Yet Samara IS Nirvana
When pesky illusions disappear.