Monastery Visitors' Room

Now that our greetings are over A silence has fallen upon us. I notice that you are wearing The color you know I love. After laying fresh wood on the fire, I smooth out the folds of my cassock And together we watch the fingers of flame Caress the rough jowls of a log.

Ah, but once this log Was alive in the forest outside, A tree that storms could not tame. I must be careful That only the casual word falls between us, That no spark is kindled.

Yet, ‘Is it too late?’ you ask, And the plumes of your small hat quiver, ‘Have you so quickly forgotten?’

How can I tell you That yours is a flame That would burn me to ash? You would not know of the bush ablaze With a fire that never consumes.