Looking for the Sweater Draped Over My Shoulders

Keith Emmons

The young go searching.
It’s what they’re supposed to do.
If only we had discovered something
to tell the young!

I watched a friend die.
With tubes up her nose.
It took her years.
She was a great poet.
“We’re all going to die,”
and other Buddhist homilies.

I searched too.
I took every step
of the journey of a thousand miles.
And returned to the market place.
Only much older.
“This is it!” and other Zen clichés.

My pegs still carry me.
I still push a pen.
I know the spirit rises
with the eyes’ intercourse,
the ears, the nose, taste,
touch, and yes, thought.

Rises and dances,
as the dawn each day rises
and kisses every dew-tipped blade.
And shakes more dust on the old.

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