For a traveller
hanging off the railcar of the year,
arrival means thankfulness.
And an emptying out.
A fistful of dishonesties
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
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.