On being a poet
It's awful, having nothing to say,
To sit silent like a toad,
Breathing in and breathing out.
Yet how pleased he seems
To sit, sun and shadows,
Breeze to stir the reeds.
Look how his sides heave,
A bellows of deep rhythms.
Nothing in the bright bead eyes
Of shame or want. No whipping
For missed flies, regret or condemnation.
Only is. Only am. Only he,
Uncensored by his mind,
Free to breathe. Little Buddha,
Free to be.
