Sitting cross legged on a wooden floor above the tiny desk, pine branches hang in rain before my eyes thru glass – a drop falls from the roof edge
broken earth here, pebbles brought from afar scattered by white treestump, green grass Crowds the path –
Grey streaks my beard, I began sitting quiet lately, but it’s too late to read Lankavatara, Surangama, Diamond and ten thousand sutras – bald head holds no Chinese, Sanskrit, Japanese, and now Rheumatism twinges my Knees ehn I walk – Well, with such pines hung in grey sky I still must be Buddha here – If not who am I? May 3, 1971
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