Tracking the Centre

For a traveller
hanging off the railcar of the year,
arrival means thankfulness.

And an emptying out.

A fistful of dishonesties
let go
into the unglazed bowl of evening.

One tall black pine
bars the horizon.
A star holds the future’s vanishing-point.

Geese on the wing sound
and resound
skies where beingness softens,

skies of endless release.

I follow a blue that turns –
and returns each brittle heart-beat
to a dark like the wild deer’s eye.

From: Travels in the Middle Land, Dhamma Moon, 2013.

Posted: Tue 17 Nov, 2009