These Hazy Days

Here

I've never been one to meditate,

to sit in an empty house

and hear it talk.

I can't boast I speak in swallows' tongue,

nor feel the ground alive beneath me

when I walk.

I've never felt the warm breeze

carve curving paths between my ears,

and I can't say I've ever known

the enlightenment of HERE.

How does one achieve full presence?

How can the mind and body touch?

I've read countless books about the art,

but it's never struck me much.

Maybe I'm searching too frantically—

being content takes years to hone.

But I fear I've wasted precious time

in pursuit of something flown.

I want to taste serenity.

I want to live in bloom.

I want to draw tranquility

from the great windowless room.

For now I'll be content in searching—

I'll make peace with what I know.

I'll breathe in and out, and gaze about,

and along the tide the winds will blow.

In this forest, learned cedars rise

into the darkening sky.

We'll have our talk eventually,

the ancient trees and I.