she left her voice behind

the sun

still new to the day

rose soft

and orange

over the river

a sudden flurry of movement

like the hurried flapping of a small bird's wings

caught at my shirt sleeve

causing it to pull

ever so gently

in the eddies and whorls of her passing by

a soft whispering voice

soft as the brushing of petals

the little house

there is a house that is no more a house

as for the woods’ excitement over you

that sends light rustle rushes to their leaves

charge that to upstart inexperience.

where were they all not twenty years ago?

then for the house that is no more a house

but only a belilaced cellar hole.

your destination and your destiny’s

a brook that was the water of the house

cold as a spring as yet so near its source

here are your waters and your watering place.

drink and be whole again beyond confusion.

excerpted from "directive" by robert frost

arriving at letting go

arriving at simplicity is a very complex process

(i saw in the mist a little village of a few tiled roofs and joyfully admired it.)

there's a stream, and there's bamboo,

there's mulberry and hemp.

mist-hid, clouded hamlet,

a mild, tranquil place.

just a few tilled acres.

just a few tiled roofs.

how many lives would i

have to live, to get

that simple

yuan mei

dappled

when my heart came to rule

in the world of love,

it was freed

from both belief

and from disbelief

on this journey,

i found the problem

to be myself

when I went beyond myself,

the pathway finally opened

mahsati ganjavi (12th century)