Hidden Mountain

In the Saha world,

where falsehoods hold sway,

staying true is an art form.


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Leaf underfoot

fern on branch

crow calls out, deep in the wood.

The Pure Land is just out from town.


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Worm-hunting wrens at dawn

completely ignore

my need for sleep.


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Despite Winter’s grasp

I can still hear

the haunted chirping

of katydids.


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Beautiful, beleaguered world

Heart-Eye open ---

Winter gratitude.


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Fifty years of wandering

only to become

a hidden mountain

nestled within a city.