By Dawn


By dawn the wind had fled,

leaving a ruffle of Canada geese

in the wetlands.

Pearls of moss on stone.

Jagged bolts of dogwood

etched softy in the sky.

Plum buds releasing their grip

on themselves.

When the mind is free

from thought, I hear

the burst of onion-scented snow drops.

Nothing urgent in the conversation

of tree frogs.

All they mean to say is

a thousand good mornings.

I sip the green tea of What Is,

mindful of the ever

unfolding now,

whose trembling we call time.

Some causeless force distills

my senses into healing tears,

perhaps the transparency

of pure love,

a love not of or for,

staining the empty

silk-screen of awareness

with this wabi-sabi world

suspended in Spring mist.

Earth does not need my ideas.

She thirsts for amazement.

William Neill photography

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