The New Criterion

In my next life, I will live in a house
with a roof that curls like a smile.
Outside, a script of trees and clouds.
Paths winding up the mountain.
Pilgrims climbing the ninety-nine steps
to the pagoda, carrying bright offerings.
Shivering, I will rise in the morning,
blow on my hands like coals,
and squat to make tea in the teapot.
Slowly, the leaves will fill my heart
like a cup, the tea leaves swirling,
knowing more than I know.
In the room’s far corner, an altar.
A few flowers, incense.
Buddha smiling.

How little will be necessary!
Like a beggar’s bowl,
each day will be full and empty.
The white cherry dropping its petals.
A snail on a silent journey,
leaving a shining path.
The swollen moon floating in a pool,
disappearing, coming back.
A tipsy bee on the lip of the ...

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