Thankful for
is a short path
with sure ending;
this world has its limits,
happiness going just so far.
Hidden away in the mountains of Tibet
monasteries with chanting so deep
layers of stone shift and change,
mountains awaken
and merchants of China
watch their goods dissolve
like morning mist.
Tell me what you find
in the brush that grows in sand
stirred and sent by river’s rising.
From here I see water
dripping from rocks
green glow and crystal,
the smell of moss and mud.
Beyond the rim of thankful for
the deeper world shines,
keeping pace with the night sky,
renewing with hunger
the grace that abides
like a rich painting
by a tireless artist
on a path that flows
with life.
The mellifluous flow of your words are like the painting of a spring showers rainbow… thanks, Bro.
I’m in accord with Bill’s comment above. The music and rhythms of the poem enchant us into the realm of “Thankful for…” Like Mary Oliver’s Wild Geese,” your poems call us back to “our place in the family of things.” Beautiful, brother.
Gorgeous Lover energy, Don!
The artist looks into the impossible void, breathes in the unbearable ache for what isn’t there, and begins to paint the face of the Beloved…
As Thich Nhat Hanh says of Buddhism, “it is not a religion, it is a way of life.” ….So it is for brush seed, enduring twists and turns of the flowing river, seeking fertility for growth on some bend fragrant with richness of minerals–they, too, made the journey. I, too, am in the journey.
I’m still sinking into this one………