Turkey buzzards circle some stink.
Wheels go around some axis pole.
Me? I just spin.
Cold mountain. A place in North Carolina.
A set of poems attributed to several monks. Who knows for sure.
A book. The translation of one part of a poem
Not attributed to anyone but verbatim it is Gary Snyder's words.
Those poems spoke to me once years ago.
Back then I was content to read poetry and climb mountains.
words circle back on me and bite :
"this morning facing a solitary shadow
suddenly two tears welled" (red pine translation 53)
What more is there to say?
The old fool, Master Ho Ha laughs at me. He waits for me to laugh too.