They weave my soul into lines of a verse,
And braid my hair tightly with care,
The winds bear a burden, the sky hums a curse,
A glassy dew scatters through air.

One thought strikes my face as I wander, alone —
Oh, who, then?
Who authors the silence, the blue desert’s tone?
My God, then?

I’m only a blade in a thousand wet stems,
Lost deep in the green, out of sight.
Yet wilted and humble, my lowliness blends
With Buddha’s own sanctified light.

One thought gleams through fading, a whisper, a call —
Oh, who, then?
Who authors the grass and the plains over all?
My God, then?

Someday I’ll rise high, leave my self far below,
And glance at the Earth from the skies.
I’ll know the vast calm where the heavens’ peace flows,
And take it with untroubled eyes.

Then, turned to a thought, pure and boundless, I’ll stay —
Abiding,
In each fleeting moment that shows me the way —
All-guiding.

2005