A road to the mountains over there . . .
Kept from the garden for being self -- once one, now each
off to seek a god
A place high above the ridges to see bright ice cut by sharp-black arete
Patterns shifting like stormy rain on quiet water
Fore to front, front to fore -- pulsing
Not words exactly but a message
Black to white, void to life, time and now
breathing
An easy koan
Thanks Polona for the wonderful
photograph
