Matcha
Buddha and I,
Sharing the ocha,
Sharing a seat upon his lotus.
Lucid are we,
Laughing in Japan,
In America, in Iran.
Teach me a method,
Show me a path.
How might I engulf every people
With an equal generosity?
My sonorous voice,
Issued from these rusty fat copper chords,
Tolls rich lathered hymns,
Sinking foothills with their cream weight.
All ethnics in queue
Await this sappy balm,
Await the spring flow
Into valleys cut sharp,
Where matted damp creatures raise small heads;
A message of Intention? Awareness?
Foreseeing a judgment,
Quick-candor to my side,
Clamber for labels freely expired,
As tossing petals to upturned faces,
Countless destinies coating each one
Until only eyes shine forth,
while gratitude fills the soil.
Dreaming in a small place I wrote this.
Do you see me, unaided?
Miniscule man writes last will,
Scribbles notes with slender bamboo shoot,
Diaphanous green darts down,
Inking final conclusion dust;
One grain
Equals not one necessity
Equals not my longing ways.
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