Oak
A Wire Branch,
Craft, Leaf
Total Oak,
Breathing
One Hundred
Pointed Circles
Stand
My Shaded
Poem
Great Tree
Roots on Roots
Our Edges
Strict Cradle
Arms, Bark
A Flowering Pen
Dead Wood
Wind
Planted Us
Conscious, Lonely
Earth Heart
Wild Song
Refused Name
John 21:25
An Invisible
peace
Laces up
Around
A tiny sprout
Its climbing
The terracotta walls
Like a Spanish
grapevine
I am adding
Lemon
To a steamy
hot fish
Thin flames
Bleed out
into the gills
schools
of dark Cricket
clicker
The sound bends
it snakes
gently
beneath the
Night Valley
traveller Spirits
Hold hands
along a
crown of
Ancient grain
I’m Still
awake
pouring
red wine and
Singing moonlight
becomes you
The Way is always right.
You do not see how.
It flows.
That is all.
There is no place
where this is not so.
The mind turns away
because the Way loves
and does not prefer.
The current has a shape.
The shape is made.
Walk the street — the world gathers.
Walk the street — the world falls away.
What you see is the lesson.
Outside the made thing
the mind names many forms.
The Way is the whole.
The whole has no edge.
It unfolds without effort.
Every act sits inside it.
No act steps outside
what already is.
The sage keeps still
only to see.
Seeing is the teaching.
If they do not know,
the Way knows.
If they do not look,
the Way looks.
Who learns from your life?
That is left to you.
Dusk
Light
withdraws
without argument
The hill
keeps
its shape
That
is the teaching
Door
Left open
all night
Wind
practices
Religion
needs less
Empty
The bowl
washes
the water
Religion
has no
second step
Mu
The question
arrives
The mouth
stays shut
Which one
answered
Slow.
winter field
the love you left
still walking it
empty peg
rain
wears your shape
frost
inside
the glass
one bird
the whole
morning
grave
gives back
what it held
noon hill
night
on the far face
unwashed cup
your mouth
still there
low tide
the sea
does not explain
gate open
no one
coming
dust
on the sill
is the day