Walking  early morning across the monastery yard
    air   breathing   breeze
      ruffling  dark  poplar trees  already

      I've walked our country road,
      eaten eggs coddled for breakfast,
found a monk who's found a tape recorder,
      my new song waiting to be sung,

     "Light works as an annointing material,
     works its way, works its way into my body..."

           the day barely begun   but alive I hear
leaves     almost name
  the feeling  on my face  they are trying
   to say: listen, you are happy. This rustle I take to mean
                           content.


Trees do not let you down,   oh their leaves bend,   and
    daily    they shake out their grief,   but
only the rarest tornado can fell one, pruned well they withstand
           even
              this;
    trees I think of as answers,   love
       in   solitary monastery   air