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.

The silver moon,
contemplating the world of samsara
from the top of my pine tree,
is eloquent in its silence,
this cobalt blue night.
Oh, the sermon of stillness…..
Who is there to listen?

The Mute Girl

I don't know her name,
don't know where she is now,
don't even know if she is still alive..
But her face is still fresh
in my childhood memories.
She was the one who lived across the street
with her grandmother
in that weather-stripped apartment,
always smiling as she stood at the porch.
We have never exchanged words,
only hand-waves through the air.
She was the mute girl to whom I threw a piece of candy,
which sweetness still warms my heart
after these thirty odd years.
I can still see her blooming smile...