Stone Garden

a poem

I walked in circles.
I got hypnotized like a chicken
to a chalk line and my footsteps made
ring after ring in the sand, first
like a Zen monk raking the stone garden
of Kyoto, then steady as Giotto drawing
a free-hand circle for Pope Benedict IX.

But my circles got smaller, until
I came to a full stop at the heart
of zilch. Seasons passed. I turned grey
as stone. The bumps and sockets are
my eyes, mouth and nose tuned
to the wind and rain. Yet my mind —
it’s still crammed full of the same old
burning questions.

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