I
Sitting on a tree stump with half cup of tea,
               sun down behind mountains—
                               Nothing to do.

Not a word! Not a Word!
Flies do all my talking for me—
and the wind says something else.

Fly on my nose,
I’m not the Buddha,
There’s no enlightenment here!

Against red bark trunk
                 A fly’s shadow
lights on the shadow of a pine bough.

An hour after dawn
I haven’t thought of Buddha once yet!
—walking back into the retreat house.

II
Walking into King Sooper after Two-week retreat

A thin redfaced pimple boy
                stands alone minutes
looking down into the ice cream bin.