The Zen Master Accounts for Himself
I’ve climbed a mountain of knives.
Ignored, except by local friends,
into each night, I persisted.
There was an owl.
There was a scratching at the side of my house
that could only have been a water rat.
I counted pennies
and longed for gold coins.
It was difficult to hear my voice
among so many others of my time.
There was a stone fence I stared at.
Buddha statues cast shadows
far across my living room.
There was the constant small pain
of the never quite well.
I knew the daze I lived in was a daze
yet could never quite shake it.
Often, I’d start out, then head back in.
Each night, the moon climbed the sky.