i read a Zen Buddhist story about a man who sells his art for money and is ridiculed by other monks until they find out what he wants the money for

i’ve no expectation
to make any money
from “art”.
certainly not poetry.
i wander and
roam and try to keep
the anxiety and despair from
building up too intensely.

maybe some day i will
wake up to a life that looks
different than this current
one. though
i remember;

i must be careful,
for the athleticism of
a wishful tongue.
today,
as an example,
i wake to an island
in southeast Alaska.
it is stormy outside,
the weather balming
into the low 40s.
the wind throwing the rain
in patternless patterns.
ravens and eagles caterwaul
on the boisterous air. the air,
smelling of salt and
earth. isn’t this a version
of perfection?

the terror and sorrow
i feel, does it
Spring inside me,
or out? is there
really any
difference?