True Love

“No remembering, no forgetting:
The secret of true love.”
— Zen saying

As if you were to fill
a shapeless bowl with stars
and wash clouds in it until
your sorrow begins to drift away
from this world of remembering,
and the forgetting. As if you were

to hear the teardrops of the smallest
insects falling on the leaves of the crucifix
lilies along the river bank: you know
everything is weeping, so why
when you weep you think you are alone?

Listen to the voiceless words,
the shore giving thanks for the sea.
I went with my grief but when I reached
the river mouth the ocean said
take me, instead, take me.

As if this robe of mist I wear
makes me any more noble
or more humble than the smoke
from your campfires, laughter
rivering the heart. Who is beloved, who
in the wind? As if the shape

of this bowl can be round in one moment,
square the next. The grass still bends
the way the wind goes.

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