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
No comments:
Post a Comment