In the next life, butterfly, a thousand years from now, we'll sit like this again under the tree in the dust, hearing it, this great thing. |
I sit in my room. Outside, haze. The whole world is haze and I can't figure out one room. |
That the world is going to end someday does not concern the wren: it's time to build your nest, you build your nest. |
Listen carefully. I'm meditating. The only thing in my mind right now is the wind. No, wait . . . the autumn wind, that's right, the autumn wind! |
What we are given: resignation. What is taken from us: resignation. It is ours that we can see, do see, must see our own bones bleaching under the warm moon. |
In the middle of a bite of grass, the turtle stops to listen for, oh, an hour, two hours, three hours . . . |
This is what, at last, it is to be a human being. Leaving nothing out, not one star, one wren, one tear out. |
That night, winter, rain, the mountains. No guilt. No not-guilt. Winter, rain, mountains. |
I know nothing anymore of roads. Winter is a road I know, but the body the beloved body, is it, too, only a kind of road? |
Did I write this as I was dying? Did I really write this? That i wanted to thank the snow fallen on my blanket? Could I have written this? |