These timeless scenes of war,
of the people leaving their homes,
the columns of soldiers and tanks
and the rubble left by the shells —
The puppet preens upon the stage.
The backdropp is his puppeteer,
whose screen winds into sturdy strings
that hold his mind in their tight grip,
The taxi driver ferried passengers
in the clunky station wagon
anywhere they sent him,
bright sun or depth of night—
It's easy on a Sunday morning,
setting out on the freeway to do the shopping
while the air is still cool and the sky a shockingly
harmonious blue and the hammer
The thoughts that come and go
as I sit in meditation,
like a buddha
carved into a cliffside:
are yoked for work.
They will not
tell you secrets.
I died in sleep. Back now before the dawn,
Let's see if I can brave the winds of time
Glorious long days
hang from the sun until dark,
beauty stacked upon beauty
and all of it for Love.