PARSINGS

The old monk sits
cross legged
on a grass mat,
a faint smile
dances across his lips.
He invites me to sit,
our meeting, he says,
is notable.

I sit, legs
folded as best
I can, and
begin to ask
but he silences me,
“First tea.” 
He sets the cups
down on the hardpack
dirt floor, there
is no table.

He asks me
to listen to
the conversation
 of passing birds,
to hear the silence
of the sun.
I ask him
to tell me
how I can find

enlightenment,
but he

is not able.