from an evolving collection entitled Sun Lake Moon



I was sitting beneath the damp night trees

listening to their squeaking branches

in the breeze


— what one wizard in the North

called ‘tree-rubbing-tree music’ —


and there

in a place no more special

and no less than any other


I felt a supernova

start to boil

under my ribs.


The Teachers

had carried me

as far as they could.


I might as well

have been standing

at the same Western Gate

the Old Man used

when he departed the province

on that donkey.


The only teacher left:

the river of the Dao

in my own bloodstream.


(c) 2018 / Frank LaRue Owen / purelandpoetry.com

sound: Petrichor / Flora and Fauna / Roy Mattson

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