February 09^th, 2024

By chance I knocked at his Zen hut,
sat among the slopes
and knew the monastery
dusty dreams as all unreal.
Water flowing mindfully;
what trace does it leave?
Idle clouds pursuing their whim;
they lean on nothing.
The novice hoes the garden,
greens at their best now.
Monkeys wail in the ravine where chestnuts
Have grown plump.
Reluctantly I start down the path among the pines,
And the white moon in its beauty comes to see me home.