temple bells — a tiny poem

there are latitudes of sky in the high hills

curved surface of blue, the laced-white mist

of absorption

no place to go but a small rock that awaits your sitting

the stony silence of its past

sits shorn, cleaved off, zenstone face

sandstone spirit under rain

the sweet drops above, weeping

the clouds mass themselves along such ley lines of a life

we never understand the drifts

we never feel their upthrust on the wind

only the effects of moisture hurling downward


up in the high hills walking

under sheets of the clean clean wind

the scent of every flower magnified

the light bursting over birdsong

the soar of imagination in the lizard as it rustles

or the sudden

updraft of wings

stirring the sage


last lifetime

there is someplace you have to walk on earth

a place you can make peace with

hidden monastery of the heart

temple bells



“temple bells” — copyright 2011 — all rights reserved

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