Fractured glass beneath my feet.
All these trees aren't as sullen as they seem.
Shaken by the sun
with half burnt ash.
Off the cuff and into my waking hour.
Into these woods let time erase all that has set to erode.
I wait to taste the feast and am left with salt in my hair.
The messenger brings 10,000 chords and casts them out
Into each life,
each destiny.
A surveyor in the foreground steps.
Chanting out in motion of the reflective charge.
One hand swings
while the other hand slaps.
One branch sways
while another branch snaps.
Hiking the mountain
while the Buddha laughs.
© -Sonja J. Johnston 26-Feb-2013
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