MIAOLI ASHRAM

by Ian Haight

 

              I

A crumbled cement house
has no door, but a roof
of morning glories. 
Leaves, hezzing
with cicada—a melon field
sown with seeds.

In the afternoon air
we sit cross-legged
on pillows, stones
of the pavilion grounds
cool from our shade
or sun-catching leaves
of trees. Jays chat

unhurriedly
among the middle branches.
Sweep the walk
though it never stays clean
with every passing worker.
Ants sometimes scamper
when the path stones move. 

In open-air kitchens
black iron vats
boil bean curd, cabbage,
watercress and carrots;
the chanted-over food
carried out
by masked crews in hairnets.

Eat without speaking. Brush
the teeth, then listen
to hours of teaching
through stories. Sleep
in a tent on a mountain
meditating with dreams.

 

            II

Near the rise
of mountains
walking

the stone
moon-lighted
paths     

it is 3 A.M.—
there is no night
in anyone’s sleep.

 

            III

Succulent virile
in the chrysanthemum eyes
of morning tai-chi movers

the soft-petal lashes
around their clear lenses
shade the sight

of little rocks
like little mountains
on nearby peaks.

 

 

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