As I stare out the window and watch
the snow slowly build on the limbs
of the now barren crab apple, painting
it with a whiteness that bears heavily,
giving the smaller branches a better
view of the ground in which their
fruit of the summer lies buried.
I am forced to wonder if the tree
continues to watch me, if its vision
is clouded by the snowy blanket
in which it wraps itself this day,
and if it does, what must it think
of someone so sedentary when it,
bearing its winter burden can still
dance gently in the morning wind.
When you see a painting
of a beautiful rose,
how can you describe it.
You must breathe deeply
of its sweet fragrance
Be careful, do not
pierce your finger
on its waiting thorns.
The rose has withered
into dust before
your mouth is opened.
A reflection on Case 76 of the Iron Flute Koans
The packed suitcase
sits on the futon
but neither it nor I
are in any hurry
blanketed in snow
is an orange
No one is certain who
painted the words on the wall.
No one knew when the painting occurred,
someone noticed the words
one morning and told others,
and the word spread through town.
People stopped to look at the words,
but few understood what they meant.
Soon there were pictures drawn
around the words, familiar faces,
and people would stop, add words
until the wall was a mural
that could not be forgotten,
only ignored by those
who simply wouldn’t understand.