Zendicant

The hillock, the bell The swept terraces The swept minds. The white wood hall The reflecting pools The reflecting minds. The weedless gardens both in brain and curtilage. The temple grounds. The temple gives flight. The temple sounds bird/wind, hush/shuffle The temple sounds right. Some say all (I say many) paths lead to these courtyards. Follow flower flows. Wending ways, find one's way. The middle path, the Wu Wei Way... Many, many ways to find One Way; to find one's way, to finally find, to unwend one's way to home mind, to No Mind. Silences... Echoing off Oms. Poverties... Bowls cradling alms. Quietudes in multitudes, of balding bones. The chatterless babble of an unseen brook. Torii, lotus, gravemarking gorinto, stupa, murti; each here, each forsook. Cherry, Plum, and Chrysanthemum; each a Zafu seed, each a mustard seed. Verdant lives, wants fallen as Autumn leaves. Needs. And for the nun? And for the monk? Each path of pilgrim's footfall an invitation, a lure for the mind at least, if not the heart, to depart.