The following prose poem is from my book PLUM BLOSSOMS, an 81 poem narrative about the peregrinations through Japan of the banished Zen monk Master Ko

a path through woods banked in drifts, glazed, up the hillside as the snow covered red tile roof comes and goes, skewed by green snow laden limbs

with the dim light of the back dock leading them on

stomping feet up shoveled steps,

dog barks and a portly balding man says well well well, so you have come back

so i have, says master ko

i do beg your pardon, sir, i spoke to the dog

yet here i am, says master ko, and you, too, professor, here you are

dog barks up at one and again at the other

you have me at a disadvantage, says the professor

many students, one professor, says master ko

ah, so it is

you have exchanged the lecture hall for the refectory, philosophy for recipes

so i have, so i have; less, i find, is more, nothingness is the kernel of the infinite

dog nudges master ko’s hand, but the abstruse remains

a look, then: so who is this fellow, dawg, that you have brought to my door, asks the professor, and invites them in for oatmeal and eggs

and so,  as the morning wears, in come women, sprightly or stooped,  who pad quietly in to eat and go

with rosy cheeked children well in tow

and old men with knobby red knuckles and broken nails, the frail veined hands cradling

chipped cups large and small of blue and black and red and yellow while

fuzzy headed novices scurry about swabbing tables and sweeping floors

oatmeal and eggs and white plastic spoons with

the lopeared mongrel asleep in the pantry, muzzle upon 

his crisscrossed paws

ladling thick cooked oats into offered bowls

gapped tooth grin

belly full

slapping a knee