Made glad with nothing
a monk's life is nothing special
like learning the art of Walden Pond
in three words, one word, repeated thrice in that supreme paragraph of literature
A spare sparse room suffices
the size of a coffin required
though more may be afforded
if affirmed by the hood and its
master
There's always one
who knows the ropes
who's been-there-done-that
who reads the bearing of the many
without an index
One meal a day plain and natural
makes for plenty, fasting aside,
and more food than words
for all glad to find hermitage where
right speech comes to no speech
Good work spells the day
to keep the soul from succumbing
to the curse of another order and
incantations summon the incense
of a quiet that's quick and piercing
A true monk means not to escape
but to seek and come-to-find
when the seeking comes to seeing
and ends still in trenchant embrace
no clinging
Without dwelling on it
monkhood dwells in simplicity
to nourish and get nourished by
the intense ease of effortless
spirit
