let’s close bright eyes
lightly,
invite warm welcome,
remember ourselves
at true best.
walk consciously
down eroded
sandstone hewn steps
into these
canyon/koan
sheerest of cliffs,
they shine red
in the blazing
orange sun,
soft blue
in the quiet
half moon,
and shall never
by us be ig\
norantly missed
nor blindly eclipsed
again.
led by the wind, a river
of air flows above
pungent mesquite
and stony silence of rocks,
perplexed and stymied,
we allow time present
to be what it may,
to hear what it talks.
like entering a trance of bronze
at the door of a monastery
high on a gold hill,
not knowing where or how
we may go next until….
but in the wild English garden
and spiraling labyrinth outside,
the two of us breathing
standing so open and still,
waiting for knowledge of which
grist is best ground
by which of ancient mills.
The question offered
by an old monk
dead for ten years,
“If I stay buried
in this canyon
for ten more,
what shall you each
choose to do with yours’?”
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