Zen In The Tea House
A love poem
pastoral poet,
blue-eyed beauty.
come, let me lie here in the sun,
fingers deep in the earth
in the life that lives in
you and me.
the footpath is a chorus of birdsong,
flute-notes, brass and strings.
the tea house is draped in reeds.
out the window,
cherry blossoms and maples,
red pines and azalea
bend to caress each other
with their branches.
you are my lover
and I am your mirror.
I love you just as you are.
Yesterday I was so burned out from driving hard at writing I couldn’t type two words of a poem or story. It would have blown up my brain. I’d pushed myself to the absolute brink — physical illness, nausea, headache, despair. Relaxation is an odd concept for me. I lie there thinking, is this life? Is this all there is? So here I am, prescribed rest, probing the depths of the universe.
