Eleven years shedding skin
drinking deep from the well of rough training.
Intimate with territories of heart-mind
reserved for orphans, widows, exiles,
no skin remains except lush word-filled silence.
This body in winter:
corpse-like under the blanket of night, dreaming;
in summer: jaguar-like, soundless, observant, moving through the humid dark.
I ponder what color Chan robe the Spirit of Time will put on these bones,
and even that thought falls away.
Then there are days like this one
when I wonder if, in some parallel reality,
beyond the great hallway of billowing quantum curtains,
there is another version of me
standing on a high hill with another version of you
overlooking a valley
talking about how the flowers
seem to shimmer in the afternoon light.