Praying with open eyes…
the shaman, taking everything in, anything
left out, the diminishment
of sacredness—
or the roshi who meditates because
he doesn’t want to miss
anything—
or the poet’s singular motivation
to clarity,
words as true as bird song—
**
Humid air’s a stranger here,
an unexpected skin
no one’s able to name.
**
Through screened windows,
morning’s stillness,
marked by dove calls.
Downstairs, the tenant
moves around the kitchen.
**
Early evening fog gathers along the ridge line,
cooled drifts pushing
toward newly opened windows.
