A Bowl

Imagine the time the particle you are

returns where it came from.

The family darling comes home. Wine,

without being contained in cups,

is handed around.

A red glint appears in a granite outcrop,

and suddenly the whole cliff turns to ruby.

At dawn I walked along with a monk

on his way to the monastery.

We do the same work, I told him.

We suffer the same.

He gave me a bowl, and I saw.

The soul has this shape.

Shams, and actual sunlight, help me now,

being in the middle of being

partly in myself, and partly outside.

Spring

Again the violet bows to the lily.

Again, the rose is tearing off her gown.

The green ones have come from the other world,

tipsy like the breeze up to some new foolishness.

Again, near the top of the mountain

the anemone's sweet features appear.

The hyacinth speaks formally to the jasmine.

Peace be with you. And peace to you, lad.

Come walk with me in the meadow.

The Friend is here like water in the stream,

like a lotus on the water.

The ringdove comes asking, Where,

where is the Friend? With one note

the nightingale indicates the rose.

Many things must be left unsaid because it is late,

but whatever conversation we have not had 

 tonight, we will have tomorrow.

The Sun is Love

The sun is love. The lover,

a speck circling the sun.

A spring wind moves to dance

any branch that isn't dead.

Quietness

Inside this new love, die.

Your way begins on the other side.

Become the sky.

Take an axe to the prison wall.

Escape.

Walk out like someone suddenly born into color.

Do it now.

You are covered with thick cloud.

Slide out the side. Die,

and be quiet. Quietness is the surest sign

that you have died.

Your old life was a frantic running

from silence.

The speechless full moon

comes out now.

Spring is Christ

Everyone has eaten and fallen asleep.

The house is empty.

We walk out to the garden to let the apple

meet the peach, to carry messages

between rose and jasmine.

Spring is Christ,

raising martyred plants from their shrouds.

A leaf trembles. I tremble

in the wind-beauty like silk from Turkestan.

The censer fans into flame.

This wind is the Holy Spirit.

The trees are Mary.

Watch how husband and wife play subtle games

with their hands. Strings of cloudy pearls

are thrown across the lovers,

as is the marriage custom.

We talk about this and that. There is no rest

except on these branching moments.

The Waterwheel

Stay together, friends.

Don't scatter and sleep.

Our friendship is made

of being awake.

The waterwheel accepts water

and turns and gives it away,

weeping.

That way it stays in the garden,

whereas another roundness

rolls through a dry riverbed looking

for what it thinks it wants.

Stay here, quivering with each moment

like a drop of mercury.

Dissolver of Sugar

Dissolver of sugar, dissolve me,

if this is the time.

Do it gently with a touch of a hand, or a look.

Every morning I wait at dawn. That's when

it has happened before. Or do it suddenly

like an execution. How else 

can I get ready for death?

You breathe without a body, like a spark.

You grieve, and I begin to feel lighter.

You keep me away with your arm,

but the keeping away is pulling me in.