In The Monastery Poem by Charles Chaim Wax

sitting meditation created pain
my legs being wooden
so I loved walking mediation
especially one night
when the Head Monk
led the way into the darkness
with a flashlight
and all I could see was
the blizzard whizzing past
a guy in front of me
as the howling wind
overwhelmed the heartbeats of humans
flipping me into a blip of euphoria
my laughter
free to fall everywhere
without obstruction
then
serene
the wind windless
snow soft as an ancient opiate pillow
enticing sleep
so I stepped off the line
lay down
unperturbed unemotional
in the tranquilizing drifts
narcotized by cool dreams
of high white stars
burning
and me burning
one utter conflagration
and placing palms together
babbled, “Bernstein’s coffin is a billion
snowflakes—
fine with him.”
Suddenly the glare of the Head Monk’s
flashlight seared my eyes
and a second later
felt his grip
as he whispered, “Cut
this amateur crap.”
The fellow meant well
but the word “amateur”
hurt.