The first ripe fruit of the silent way
escapes expression by the tongues of fools,
philosophers and theologians. The wide day
cannot be distinguished from night, the schools
of stars swim in the heavens. Within woolen
garments she warms herself before my eyes
can make sense of the image. The poor tools
of poets and of mystics, the colorful dyes
and the unfolding fabrics. The tree tries
to grasp the sky, the leaves move left to right
then right to left. I see the blue bird fly
into its nest and sing without a thought
or argument. The ripe and orange Sunrise
reveals the land disclosing mysteries.
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