April 06^th, 2018

There is a man who makes
A meal of rosy clouds:
Where he dwells the crowds don't ramble.
Any season is just fine with him,
The summer just like the fall.
In a dark ravine a tiny rill drips,
Keeping time,
And up in the pines the wind's
Always sighing.
Sit there in meditation, half a day,
A hundred autumns' grief will drop away.