In the rain and wind, beards
turn white,
the brain’s inscriptions
grow frayed. Writing grows unclear
in contemplation. The mind grows towards the land
through the images which
reveal antiquity.
Our own time blazes and
blossoms,
summer and fall.
The flower and the butterfly.
Awareness comes from the far
distance,
in explanation. This is the thought of mountains.
The thought of mountains is
like our the thought of our elders.
The land is cleansed by the
brightness of wisdom.
Standing amid the ocean
mists, my legs
are joined with the clouds
floating in the distant blue.
The cloudy mists whisper to
the land,
I shall speak to my zither
of transcendent wisdom.
10 August 2009
