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high above valley

above deep shade coloured with the calls of cuckoos

the ring of coppersmith's hammer

high in the hiss of the wind

wind filled with spirits

and bright with the jangle of horse bells

after a crisp night crammed with stars

it's morning



over the scratched up soil, scorched earth wasted

long shadows lead women bearing water

i watch the sway of skirts

think of moist spice forests



too many pictures

swirling

vertigo

momentum of civilization

threw me far over this time-simple landscape

and I hang here

in this mountain light

a balloon blown full of darkness

got to let this ballast go

got to float upward

till I burst



weaver's fingers flying on the loom

patters shift too fast to be discerned

all these years of thinking

ended up like this

in front of all this beauty

understanding nothing



rhododendrons in bloom

sharp against spring snow

remind me of another time

in Japanese temple

there was a single orange blossom

at the wrong time of year

seemed like a sign

when I looked again

it was gone



weaver's fingers flying on the loom

patters shift too fast to be discerned

all these years of thinking

ended up like this

in front of all this beauty

understanding nothing





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