April 27^th, 2017

The trail is dangerous
Among snowy, silent peaks.
With the Master gone,
Who goes this way to meditation?
Dust slowly gathers
On the tea table;
Before his death,
Tree colors already had changed.
The pagoda stands
In blowing pines;
Footprints fade
Along the roaring stream.
Passing by the grieving temple,
The tiger
Hears the sutra,
Weeps.