August 16^th, 2018

Having come late to the pure truth,
Every day I withdraw farther from the crowd.
Expecting monks from a distant mountain,
I prepare, sweeping out my simple thatch hut.
It's true, from their place in the clouds,
They come to my poor house in the weeds.
On grass mats, we have a meal of pine nuts.
Burning incense, we read books about the Way.
I light an oil lamp as daylight thins;
Ring the stone chimes as night comes on.
Once you've realized the joys of stillness,
Your days hold ample peace and leisure.
Why give serious thought to returning?
Life now looks completely vacant.