Leaving a congested boulevard behind,
I wander a tree-lined path
to fifteenth century Japan.
My rolled-up jeans collect earth
once tread upon by courtesans, their weary,
shy smiles hidden behind papery kimono sleeves.
Five hundred years ago, an artist designed
this Zen garden, its tree branches still trimmed
into wispy green clouds, high above
shallow reflecting ponds that cause one's breath to slow,
one's mind to contemplate the beauty of nature,
the joy of life.
The sand garden is the enigma.
A patch of coarse sand raked
into an ocean view.
Thin, neat lines of tiny pebbles
caress the foot of dwarf sand mountains.
The garden means nothing, but everything.
Five hundred years later
an early morning snow has
dusted the garden.
Each rhythmic wave of stones holds aloft
a whitecap of spray, daring the golden winter sun
to steal up snowflakes in a swirl of mist.
My mind too feels the cold and heat.
Vapors slow my gait and leave me hushed,
drawing in the intricate simplicity,
as my thoughts rise above with the misting snow.
~Sharon MacDonell
Michigan-based writer Sharon MacDonell has won awards for her fiction, founded the Royal Oak Prose Writers Workshop and awaits publication of an anthology including her work entitled, Voices Carry. Website. Email.
© 2003 by Sharon MacDonell. All Rights Reserved.