My first teacher taught Letting-Go Mind.
She was human,
but also a woman
made of thunder and lightning.
Her slate-gray robe
and long strand of mahogany-red neck beads
placed her centuries before
despite what the calendar said.
Toward the end, she pulled out an unmarked box.
From it, she pulled a map.
'The World,' it said
which I read
as she spread
the tattered brown paper across the table in front of us.
made from wine stains
covered the map.
Clearly, late night discussions
had occurred over it.
Spirals inside of smaller circles
covered the world, East and West, North and South.
Without speaking, my eyes made their own inquiry.
Seeing this, she nodded and slowly
moved her hand over the unfolded paper.
"A network of courtyards, linked, dedicated to The Way," she announced.
"Each one has a Keeper.
In time, you will visit them.
In time, you too will become
a Tender of the Long-Night for others."
My new teacher teaches No-Adding-To Mind.
She is not human,
the rain of summer
from the edge of the roof.
(c) 2017 / Saizan Owen / purelandpoetry.com
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