Pure Duration, Pure Fire, a Universe Burning, Forever Consumed
The old Zen masters
measured meditation with sticks
of incense.
“I sat,
my head holding up the sky
for eight sticks of incense
every night.”
But what does time mean
when you look
into the source?
Imagine old Ryokan
dashing out to get some sake
from a farmer down the road,
not too long a walk.
“I’ll be right back,”
he says to his guest.
Stepping through the entrance
of a sacred dilapidated shack,
closing the door with care
because it exists,
steps of deep attention,
feet making fallen leaves
more real, more full,
prayers of maple trees
holding the blood
of the earth,
the sun's intellect
And then
the beauty of the moon
(yes, an Autumn evening)
brings him to that stillness,
the emotions of night employ it
to gather dew on naked leaves,
he stops just a moment,
infinity condenses around him
An hour later
his guest comes outside:
“Ryokan!”
“You’ve come
just in time to see it!”
“I thought something happened to you!
Where’s the sake?”
“Oh, yes!
I’ll be right back!”