Trees

Dharma is not.

Buddha is not.

Only water, and trees left to rot.

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When the muses leave, what is left but silence? The abysmal comfort, the unending sleep- when the muse leaves where I go to find it? With what rapture, what song- may I sing now in the day that lasts

The wanderer, the seeker All are all the weaker For they fail to see the world’s telling brand The simple sound of one hand….

I wonder, I wonder If in the depths of our slumber, We ever dream to cease our ceaseless number. Perhaps our questions are naught but answers, Perhaps answers are naught but questions, Our pride is pr