captive in its hands

pulled back to the caves beneath the forest,

where the roots dwell.

we may rest quietly,

save the winter chill biting at our skin.

and when spring comes it

will shake off the ice lands,

but who can tell this man,

where the tree begins

and the skies end?

we'll count the nightingales

and whistle with the spring dove,

when the fall returns

so too does fall the love,

of seasons passed, seasons to come,

seasons not to be but one,

falling in and out of sun.

the body rests in meager step,

how weary and deep,

does our heart leap at romance?

how quickly we sink,

and make anchors out of our stones,

well rounded and smoothe to touch,

dare we toss them into the river bed?

traveler,

rest your legs a while and sit beside me.

the fire is dim but the warmth may reach you yet.

let me tell you of lives past,

of rivers lost and won,

of treasures that shift from gold to mud,

depending on the age?

we've reached another corner now,

do you see it clearly, or is it hazey?

the tea rises in steam and clears

your weary mind.

quiet, reposed,

you are open,

and listen passively.

do you see the steam dissipate in curls and streams?

going up and out into nothing?

so too can be said for our lives,

in ways we do not see,

busy twirling and curling about the air

we breathe as one.

if this is but gossip to you,

from the spirits,

then come to pass.

your tea will cool,

your bowl become empty,

and be you on your way.

if you stay,

i may only tell a tale as ancient as the sun,

no, more!

the sun knows this story too.

ah, so you remain,

so i shall tell.

before you were you,

you were everything.

before you were everything,

you were nothing,

and none of these things end at any point.

they curve, curve like the steam of your tea.

like the rivers outside.

like the thoughts in your mind.

nothing more, nothing more.

let us enjoy the night,

dance in the sunrise,

sing in mid-day,

whisper in the evening,

there is nothing more to say,

and no wisdom could ever usher more or less

than the rustle of cherry trees.

traveler,

you may tell me you are weary,

you are clouded in a fog,

and the steam is all but elusive.

traveler,

you may say that you are angry,

you are clouded in a fear,

and the mindfulness is all but hidden.

traveler,

i tell you only one thing,

who is it that knows the fog?

who is it that knows the hidden?

who is it that knows the unknown?

are you not already aware of these things?

are these things not unlike steam themselves?

why do you hasten your worry?

is that not the true hiding?

from yourself?

you already are, and that is effortless.

you have come into being so very naturally,

remain a while,

sip your tea,

sing and cry,

smile and be of joy,

there is nothing,

just watch the steam rise.

And we had it all. Upstairs in the student hall at least a hundred fliers, with a dozen different things to do. The world was at our fingertips, right there in our classrooms, and it was in very bad shape they'd tell us, very bad shape.

You could travel to Africa with foreign aid projects, discuss gender and race with the sensitivity club, and taste fine exotic foods in MultiCulture club. And this was all very progressive, so they would tell us. I had begun to have my doubts.

We sit in classrooms and discuss the same theme: Oppressive, hungry, needing world. Woe to you and we, the more fortunate, should extend our efforts. Sensitivity. Awareness. Effort. Assistance. The students are rallied up, in a very subtle way, to help. Yet I noticed, as each took their turn discussing one strife or another, that there was a level of enjoyment in it! Yes, hidden there, in the words of liberty, sensitivity, multiculture, there was an escape. Dare I say, it? No, I needn't, shouldn't. The escape was simple: If we all could immerse ourselves in these ideas, this diversity, we would be safe, we could make a meaning out of our lives and wish the demons away. These students were not actively wishing anything but their own security. The ultimate narcissism, it seems for us here in school, is through ideals. And this, if I were to say it aloud, would have them at me like a pack of wolves, who had just forgotten they were supposed to be angels.