Poplar Grove

There are places in the world to go
where golden spirits dance
quietly in the tingling cold,
where wood-warmed water
feels soft and slides over your skin
like the smell of burning incense,
a kind of steaming love
and a hint of an ancient koan
about fire and all the stranger gods,
while a gnarled willow tree wiles away
her time, repeating a wooden mantra
deep into the soggy earth,
home of yellow bishops
and a constant song
about the silence of open space,
or what it feels like to close your eyes
and go beyond,
and beyond beyond,
and beyond beyondness,
all the way back here

where the sun sets
in a Karoo sky so clear
you can see the body itself,
smell its likeness
to the willow tree
wondering these waterways
and chanting her silver-tongued truth:
a soft bell in the velvet distance
and an echoed ringing into night.

TRACE

Unexpected house

Mzansi Zen