Before paper there was cloud, air, forest,
and the words we write, made with mind images
and minerals, graphite, something in the ground
reduced to a powder that blows away into cloud
air and forest. The nuns, robed in maroon,
write on cards, teaching us our meditations.
Desire is a torch we hold in our hands.
Its flame burns us as we walk into the wind.
Without desire we can free ourselves.
The nuns and monks put on their saffron robes.
They kneel before the statue of Buddha, chanting.
The Temple is light and scented by orchids.
We walk with our Teacher, holding hands
like children, and the children hold our hands
and walk with us, leading us and our Teacher
through the plum orchards, slowly, each step
is a meditation: we feel with the soles of our feet
the ground meet us with its powdered history.
Before sunrise, the great bell wakes us,
its sound rolls slowly round the lake.
We reach for our clothes, smooth our hair,
and still half asleep, we stumble to the Temple,
kneel together, begin to count our breathing.
We try to see the world with Dharma eyes.
Thousands of sunflowers raise their heads.
We walk up the path to the top of the mountain.
Our Teacher tells us that our lives are like waves,
no birth or death, only altered states of being.
Beside the lotus pond we watch our reflections
like clouds passing over the surface of the water.
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