As a humble person, I fill my mornings with simple pleasures: writing haiku on clean white paper; straightening bent nails with a hammer; watching a sparrow build a new nest; or touching—gingerly—cactus needles. Evenings, I enjoy watching the current swirl where the river bends on its way to Mexico. I need no more medicines for my soul than these.
I long to wash the field dust
from my hands and face.
If I could touch the sound of a dove with my fingertips, I would. But my hopes are dashed; the little songster flees as I draw near. The dove calls again. Surely this time! Stealthily I move forward, but a dry leaf crackles underfoot. Hush now, I say to myself, you’re making too much noise; surely she hears you. But, no, there on a branch of the plum is the dove, and there is her song, pouring from her beak like a silver waterfall. Slowly, ever so slowly, I approach, I reach, I touch the sparkling notes. The dove does not stir, though she knows full well what I’m doing. You doubt my story? In the Age of Donald Trump, anything is possible.
An old Buddhist monk,
who never tells me his name,
visits me in dreams.
More Sunday’s Whirligig #248
More Writers’ Pantry #2 at Poets and Storytellers United