84,000 daughters, all named Jiva, have died and been buried here in this boundless cemetery you call a world.
sent by the wind and rain, the snow and moon
At the top of the mountain, I spread my outer robe on a rock to dry, set down my staff and bowl, took a deep breath, and looked around.
Then one morning, there I was, an old woman.
Where had I gotten in all those years on the Path?
That night I slept out in a field, and it rained.
How we looked into each other, how we danced through vampire nightclubs,
our intentions green and full of desire…
a dream, a cloud, a flash of lightning:
view all created things like this
Across the street, Ginkgo
sway in the breeze
like a gospel choir.