Hexagram
I Ching
by Gail Cleare
Dusty hush of
Bamboo shaded room,
Curl my lotus feet
Breathe the pieces of me
Out of either nostril
Wisping into fluent
Bars of grey and beige
Above my dragon head.
Mark of the master's brush
On inner eyelid,
Six spare lines
Converge
Stare like fish
Caught up in a light,
Shimmering inscrutable
Zen epiphany
At my astonished lens.
Bone and image
Are gardenias
Sailing in a silver bowl,
Empty and simple
As yin and yang.
It blows and dies,
Be not sad.
Be like the sun at mid-day!
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