Trees like traveling
the day when it will set out on its journey,
as it stands, rooted in one place,
invites insects and the wind,
hurries to bear fruit,
“somewhere far away,”
“somewhere far away.”
At last the birds peck at its fruit
and the wild beasts come to nibble.
A tree needs no backpack, no suitcase, no passport to travel.
It hitches a ride on a bird’s belly,
stealthily making its own airship,
and, when the day comes, it sets out abruptly,
into the sky.
The seed falls.
“Here’s a good place. I can see a lake.
I’ll stay here for a while.”
It becomes a seedling and puts down roots
and, like the tree from which it came,
it too begins to dream of the day it will set out on its own journey.
When I touch the trunk of a tree
I understand how it aches:
how it loves to travel
how it yearns to wander
how it writhes, longing to be a nomad.
The bow whispers to the arrow before it speeds forth
--"Your freedom is mine."
The water in a vessel is sparkling; the water in the sea is dark.
The small truth has words that are clear; the great truth has great silence.
The raindrops kissed the earth and whispered,
--"We are thy homesick children, mother, come back to thee from the heaven."
Not hammerstrokes, but dance of the water sings the pebbles into perfection.
The bird thinks it is an act of kindness to give the fish a lift in the air.
Dream is a wife who must talk.
The dust receives insult and in return offers her flowers.
The grass seeks her crowd in the earth.
The tree seeks his solitude of the sky.
God grows weary of great kingdoms, but never of little flowers.