Mountain pines draped in early morning mists
hazily shift and hover around my small campfire,
while looming phantoms of blurry presence haunt
the foggy hillsides — felt as the ineluctable sense
of being itself by everything simultaneously.
Though nothing is as it appears,
everything steeps in blessing.
Later, fresh tree scenes stream through my vision
adrift on a honeycombed breeze, freely populated
with loose light limbs, jewel-birds, glittering grace
hymns, struck root chords resonant with dawn,
the random sighs of falling leaves, and all
caressed so tenderly in light.
Who has the transparent clarity of mind
to contemplate the mutual permeation
of heaven and earth in the form
of a leaf in the breeze?
The sense of dreamy identity at the matrix
of perception floats on the breeze of thoughts
and sensations that seem to amount to a somebody,
though it’s only a smoke-like echo trailing nowhere
in particular, perhaps over a nameless mirroring pond
where, mysteriously spawned from the inexhaustible
absolute, the relative emerges, and everything
splashes happily about in pure delight,
at home in the midst of infinity.