March 18^th, 2017

Lately, I love but quietness:
Things of this world
Are no more my concern.
Looking back,
I've known no better plan
Than this:
Returning to the grove.
Pine breezes,
Loosen my robe.
Mountain moon beams,
Play my lute.
What, you ask, is Final Truth?
The fisherman's song,
Strikes deep into the bank.