Sunday, December 20, 2015


by Ed Hack

The winds are busy in the trees. Some give
so easily, the feathered ones. Some nod,
while other's don't, the old, who've outlived
centuries, gnarled and weatherworn, the gods
right after Time began, who gave a shape
to emptiness, perhaps are emptiness,
as Lao Tzu insists. The Garden shows fate's
signature--shadows, ripples, wind's caress
or ripping teeth, najimi, balance, in
what's here--old stone against the water's play,
the light and dark, the soft and fierce, the yin
and yang of all there is, not one lost stray
is possible, and all things on their way
to something else, for nothing ever stays.

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