What are we but fire patterns?
Light cast out from higher lanterns?
Let us allow the darkness,
and bless the burning.

I wish for not but to unwind,
to slip into a cyclic time,
to let the river at its flow,
to know there's nothing left to find.

To enjoy Pu-erh and nectarine
after waking from a dream.
To find things in the morning
left exactly as they'd been.

The fruit still sweet,
the tea
hot.

None gone to rot
until forgot.

The fruit made ripe
by what is not.

The taste of tea?
or just a thought?

To enjoy Pu-erh and nectarine
after waking from a dream.
To find things in the morning
left exactly as they'd been.
All is as it seems.

How can you not be thankful for your mother and father?
How can you not be grateful for the Earth beneath your feet?
The Sky above your spine?
With our whole lives we try to say thank you,
though sometimes it seems this endless succession
of gifts slips by too soon;
so we backtrack
and follow our steps left from where we were
in an attempt to find source,
the ultimate gift-giver,
selfless in every extent,
because we know that if we may say thank you
to That compassion
then all will be released;
all will be welcomed.

Here is the difficulty;
for in our usual acceptance of gifts
we return in kind,
but in a blessing so subtle
there is no hand to shake,
no body to embrace,
and so we light incense,
we make sacrifices and say,
“look what I don’t have,
look what is once again belonging to that great unspeakable something!”

Then the realization
that there truly is no difficulty.
That the great gift giver
is no idol to be worshipped,
but an example to be followed.

fresh morning dew drop,
suspended like a planet,
appeared over night,

Sternness,
you earn this.
Books,
you burn this,
only because
somewhere silence says
"Learn this!"

It says,
"the only thing important is definition."
and it will remain so until the flames reach us,
washing upwards like waves on a beach,
claiming us
and burning, popping,
bringing blackness from our toes
upwards still
into our eyes,
leaving lineless husks of us,
like sea shells waiting to be found
and filled
with definition.
To be made a cup.

"Fill your cup with love!
There is no drought.
We’ve reached the wellspring"
and you see no difference in
light and liquid.

"The inside of a heart,
is this dark?"


Escape into,
Get out of,
And be release.

Should I give more attention?
a tree than a stone?
because one is softer?
or has longer been 'lone?

We’re home.