Parched summer sky:
but let my vows rain through
and every leaf and all places be washed
and aspiration spread its span
and the eye of all things open –
unadopted, coolly present.
late summer evening.
Among the tremors of intent
the martins’ wings flick the pond
with the harmonies of vanishing.
a bright moon after the storm
in and out of the clouds.
Morning will bring more rain,
present the shining of dead leaves;
and, like the richest seeing,
a mist that penetrates the bone.
From: Travels in the Middle Land, Dhamma Moon, 2013.