Meeting of the Red Thread Sangha

Sitting on a shingle beach

The wind all around
the subtle texture
of that one pebble

Opening the door
The morning light floods in

the sofa just the way it is
After the sitter’s gone

in between a rock and a stream

Sunny day
when the tide is out
the emptiness

Our chatter
Inside a universe of birdsong

I am still here
the pipes of the old house
sing the dawn chorus


Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device

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