The practice of Winter
requires no effort.
Simply do not fear
the hollow place.
Be thankful for
what's left in the gourd,
for the gift of withering,
your open palm,
your persimmon cheeks.
Find another word for "emptiness."
Look for husks, pods,
bright crinkled faces
in the Void.
Those who visit this world
report that it is a planet of chaff,
rind, stretch marks, scar tissue.
Everyone here must break open,
wear a gash on the belly,
reveal the bewildering sweetness
of their fruit.
And where does this nectar seep?
Into the soul.
And where is the soul?
In thirst.
If you can't find passion
in the land of disappointment,
be ardent about this breath.
Fall in love with your next inhalation
as with the first gasp
of a newborn foal.
Softly attend your sigh
as if it were your mother's,
and her last.
Whatever is delicious,
whatever is astonishing,
whatever brings piquant
and savory tears,
ripens and dies now.
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