if mind has no aim, it is mahamudra

this time of year,
there is fruit
in the fields.
in the gardens.

when I leave
my house,
my pockets are
other than the
breast pocket of
my shirt,
in which I keep
a stick
for my teeth.

the human settlement
here is small,
easy to navigate
by foot.
people here
are generous,
some call me
and offer me
fruit from their trees.

the water here
is clean and
plentiful, and
the fields are full
of fruit,
this time of year.

i’m told later
there will be bushes
of berries.
i’m told there will be
gardens explosive
with green vegetables.

it’s hot today
and all I have is
a stick
for my teeth,
in the chest pocket
of my shirt.

there’s fruit
in the fields
this time of year
and plenty of
clean water.

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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