Sequestered by this morning's drizzle, I luxuriate in isolation
And a moving zazen, kindled by performance of some heretofore
Neglected chores. With peace within, and also peace without,
The world being now a Chinese painting on a scroll, I feel myself
Reduced and in it, slowly poling my way past the cliffs above
A waveless lake. Time can stop. I wish it would, but I suspect
The coming hours will, at some point, blot me from the scroll,
The lake, my isolation, roughly drawing me, instead, into
A raukous world.