It can start anywhere.

A sunlit wall.

A swaying branch.

The sound of falling water.

A sparrow piercing dawn silence.

Steam rising from a midnight teacup.

Seeing the face of an old traveling friend

as if for the very first time.


Some call it ‘stirring to life again’.

Others speak of

'old souls waking up in a new age'.

Master Ikkyū gained his vital remembrance

from an old crow over open water.

Having quaked awake this morning,

I turned pen to page.

My night-flying body offered instructions

to my groggy daytime self.

>|<

Right outside your door

is a wonderworld.

It beckons for your

practiced observation.

Right outside your door

is a celestial pureland.

It beckons for your

full participation.

You wander alone

but there is a form

of abiding accompaniment

that waits among the congregation

of maple-covered mountains.

Surrender the weight you carry

and be carried

by flowing paths and unfurling clouds.

After a full churning of day and night ch'an-seeing,

there will be no doubting it.

You

have stepped

inside a poem

about a journey

that ends

in the silence

of the

ten thousand things.


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


sound: Transitory Season / Intersecting Skies / Roy Mattson

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