11.11.2004
This is for Berv
I'm not afraid to reveal my bad poetry. I'm not afraid to show you my outhouse.I went in late October to the hill near Stoney River
woke in darkness to touch the frozen ground
I came for enlightenment
Instead, I listen to mice scurry about the dirt floor
and scold the dog for barking at moose so early in the day
I do my Buddhist practice but it is too much
We sleep next to Tara’s image and we are blessed
But we are cold
Mornings, we walk to the fallen pine
and set to work for firewood
At the lilting yurt I cut and split the logs
Atop an aspen table I set the logs to dry
and return to the pine for more
Inside, logs stacked near the stove
oil lamps hung from poplar rafters
I wind the radio for news from Ely and messages from home
They speak of my yurt having never seen the thing itself
They read my name and the names of those I know
Evenings, I photograph the sunset reflected from lithe young birch
and walk the road when rustling all goes still
Finally, I set the chair near the stove and lay a rug for the dog
reading Hesse and Sunruzi Suzuki
I don’t hear the snow falling on the ground