By Dawn

 

By dawn, the wind had fled,

leaving a ruffle of 
night-weary Canada geese in the wetland.

Pearls of moss on stone.

Jagged bolts of dogwood

etched softy in the sky.

Plum buds releasing their grip

on themselves.
A silent white boat

drifting over me.
Is it the same moon
that floated over grandmother’s garden
before I learned to measure 
months and years?
Child (I say to myself)
it is never the same moon.
It is never the same mind.

When the heart 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 moment

whose trembling we call time.

Some causeless force distills

my senses into healing tears,

pure love’s transparency,

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 my amazement.

William Neill photography