Wist

Immeasurable legions of white clouds close rank

Leaving a clear blue path the size of a fist

What wonder the heavens hold, we thank

Neither Buddhists nor Neo-Realists

Mountain Top

I am sitting here like patience on a mountain

White clouds for wings, a shadow over mountaineers

In distant view green, grey- valleys and wastelands

The seasons mean nothing to the unmoving

The echoes can hear you, the world is so self involved,

They will no longer speak to you