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In a single breath,
the whole earth is
free,
as our breath is free.
In a wave of the hand,
the universe is moved,
as we are moved.
Infinity in this instance,
in the tiny flicker
of finger mudra.
Resonates deep with
each step,
as each particle of
our being retraces a long arc from the beginning of time.
SAI--SAND
Sand broken so
many times by the
sea,
still sighs with each
waves.
FONG--WIND
Wind blown grass
weaves canopy over
parched tin can.
Each time the wind
blows,
a hollow muttering
from its rusty crushed body.
ON BEING A TAI CHI TEACHER
Each morning,
between watering the
plants,
I look out to the
streets.
Lines of pedestrians
emerge
from underground tunnels,
their clothes clean
and pressed,
walking in brisk staccato
steps.
Behind tense eyes,
between the corner
of their mouth,
they tucked away their
night dream.
Car honk,
flutter of voices,
and the eerie breath
of steam rising out of the underworld,
all merged into the
pouring water of my watering can.
It is absorbed by
each plant, a tender
green flame
emanating forgiveness,
in this pale frozen
dawn.
I must hold each life
with care.
FORM EMPTINESS
An old leather couch
held still
the indented shape
of existence.
If you have comments or suggestions,
email me at Dan Tao School