When you wake to the delicate quake
of nature – uninterrupted
earth song, gentle footprint as
Thai massage over tired valley.
Buddha sits inside the singing bowl.
The ancestors daven in the light.
Their parade chants the scent of
amber, and sage across the sky.
How I bless, I bless this perfect
rage, this errant thought, this
world’s a stage, this all for
naught, and what remains.
A red spider, sitting beside me,
this phantom writer weaves her song.
At the top of the universal rung
she fills her lungs; in breath,
chi qong, in breath, aum.
I am swinging among breezes,
reaching for branches. My silk
is a silent steel beam, unseen,
but for the gleam of a distant
I graze the mountain median,
and my true northern mean,
while this law of karmic kisses
folds into the slumbering mounds, in
the the Ojai peaks and valleys
of last night’s dream.