I’m a bird who’s found his way to the forest.
Sitting alone in the place of practice, the
cranes rise beyond the mirror I avoid and
I put down the great perfection and dream
of a path that shimmers in the mountains
that have always called, the ones that float
beyond the village I keep alive in my mind,
the village of counters and complainers.
The problem in living is that the soul, like
a horse dragging a plow for someone else,
can’t find its way back to wonder. But the
soul has to live in the world. So taking off
the harness isn’t the answer. Somehow the
soul must lead. Then the harness loosens
and becomes a teacher.
And the mind, what of the mind?
Like the tumblers to a safe that only
holds light, it is only of use until it