How can we heal the wounded planet, you ask.
I have no big ideas to offer.
But I know we can help the Earth
by relearning how to take pleasure
in the smallest and the most ordinary things.
Why travel ten thousand miles
to find excitement in a place far away?
I take my vacation while staying home.
What joy is it to sit in a quiet cafe,
to sip coffee slowly
while I reminiscent, read or write.
What a luxury to find
a seat by the window
where the sun shines in.
It’s my photosynthesis--
to bask in sunshine and warmth,
in defiance of Winter’s cold.
To be alone in the midst of people.
To let silence be moderated
by a small background noise,
like birds chirping in a garden.
It’s a perfect place to fish for ideas,
to compose and create.
Who needs a plane ride
when one can create one's own island
by going deep into the
sanctuary of the mind?
The small pleasures of life.
They can save the world.

Slowly
she loosens her hair.
Strands of black silk
descends on bare skin,
waiting to be touched.

The closer winter,
the more intense my colors.
I burn like Fall leaves.

One tree standing
under grey Autumn sky.
Barren. Stripped.
Yet majestic
and confident
in its nakedness.
Without a single leaf remaining
the branches look delicate now.
Is this what happens
when we clear away the clutter?
When I get really old,
I wish to be just like you--
So simple.
So dignified.
So beautiful.

"There is no self,"
I heard Buddha taught.
But if the self is a mirage,
who is the one suffering?
And who gets enlightened?
Who is the one writing THIS?
The Universe sings and dances.
It jokes and plays.
It makes tender love.
It creates itself
for its own pleasure.
No self is needed
in this divine play.
The Sutra says
there is no suffering,
No sufferer.
No noble truth.
No ignorance
and no enlightenment.
No wisdom.
No attainment.
It's just the Universe
at play, making
its own entertainment
in this game of One.

The old man,
like Ebenezer Scrooge,
lives alone in a drafty old house.
But his house, unlike Scrooge’s,
is stocked with books.
Hundreds of them,
on all kinds of subjects--
philosophy, science,
history, religion,
also art and poetry.
He acquired them,
for a pittance.
through used book sales.
A dollar, two dollars each.
Books published decades ago.
Products from a different era.
Pages yellowed,
weather-worn,
but nicely bound
and scented with soul.
Some with dedications.
Perhaps a gift from one lover to another.
Others with handwritten notes
written at the margins.
Records of the previous owner’s
remarks, questions and pondering.
What does he see in them?
Don't they belong to the junk pile?
Perhaps he knows
that on a cold winter night,
these books will serve
as his only companions.
Books other people discard,
are his protection
against old age and loneliness.
He acquires them,
not for knowledge,
but for warmth.
They are his substitute
for the lost human touch.
They are his sustenance.

***
is a conversation
in ****** silence,
using something
better than words.

Converse with your body.
Feel each other’s heat.
Temperature
cannot lie.
It is truer than words.

Converse with your soul,
couched in inner wilderness.
The soul has its own rhyme and reason.
It has a subtle way to triumph
over the ego’s objection.

***
is a communion,
not a solo act.
First be quiet and listen.
Just like any sacred art,
it requires  your full presence.