The face in the mirror
was surprisingly older today,
and I can’t imagine that I
will ever look that old,
at least not for quite some time.
I wanted to ask him how
he had aged so badly, but knew
that it would be bad manners
to comment on his appearance,
so I smiled and he in returm.
I suppose one day I will look
much like he did this morning,
but I know that day is far off
in the future, and I just felt sad
for his older man’s face.
They came this afternoon. They were not expected. They tend to show up when thet are not expected. We expect that of them. They did not tell us they were coming. If they had, we would expect them. They do not want to be expected. We expect that of them. They did not do what we expected. They do not like doing with people expect. We expect that of them. They left in the middle of the visit. We did not expect that. We expect that they will come back. But they are not expected.
Would it surprise you to learn
that like most writers, I
have spent more than a little
guilty time trying to imagine
what you look like, what you know
you should be doing
while you are reading this poem.
And I do wish I couild see
your face as you read it, knowing
it is a conversation where
you want to speak, to tell me
that you like my work, that
reading me is a complete
and utter waste of time,
but you cannot, so I will
conclude that you do like
my work or else you would
not be reading this in the first place.
Each morning, once I have completed
the often unpleasant task of dragging
myself from the womb of blankets, I make
my appearance in front of the mirror.
I stare closely into it, and am unsurprised
to find it returning my stare,
and on every occasion, I notice
that the mirror has once again
chosen to wear the same clothes as I,
albeit not as well or stylishly, no doubt
the result of its limited sense of dimensions.
It is odd that I know so well what
the mirror looks like, how it masquerades
as this or that until it can no longer
hope to avoid me, and yet despite
its familiarity, I have no idea at all
what I really look like anymore.
Each morning I drag myself
from bed, slowly engage my legs,
and amble into the bathroom
where I peer into the mirror.
Each morning I am surprised
that I am the same as I was
they day before, and yet the mirror
by all appearances,
has grown another day older.
It is, I suppose, the nature
of mirrors to age, sadly for them,
and as I turn away each morning
I wish the mirror a good day,
certain that it cannot help
but mourn its ever increasing age.
I now live among birds, and they
accept me, listen to me endless complaints,
and never demand I cease kvetching.
I know they speak about me behind
my back, but they are kind, and generally
do not remind me of my shortcomings,
no doubt certain I am all too well aware
of my failings, and they remind me they have
their own problems, a shrinking
environment, water and air that only
we might drink or breathe willingly,
and when I object to their complaints,
when I say that I am not the one
to blame, they seem to laugh, and say
perhaps so, for we birds have much
in common with you, no one wants
to listen to us complain, and you do
all look pretty much alike to us.
The true self
is no-self,
and this self
is not self,
but illusion
and delusion,
where delusion
is enlightenment,
and nothing
is as it seems
for nothing is
and only seems
and so it is
with self,
so let go
of this self
and no-self
will appear,
though it was
always there.
If a gentle flower
falls from its branch
do you mourn its departure.
The fool attempts
to place it back in the bush,
the wise one waits
for another flower to appear.
Each is the same flower
but how will the fool
become wise.
A reflection on case 52 of the Iron Flute.
an old writer and his words 