Lying on the wooden floor
of the Main Buddha Hall,
the sky entered
only as far as
the open door allowed.
To look at the sky
was never
to speak of the whole sky.
The trees,
with their green leaves,
paint dancheong*
upon the sky.
Clouds like grazing sheep
wander into the painted eaves,
feeding on grass.
For a brief moment,
the insistent cries of cicadas
and the cuckoo’s call
fell silent,
as though they had never been.
The tips of the branches
grew still.
Something passed by.
Perhaps
it was an angel.
The wind passed.
Once more,
the insects and birds of the forest
began
their festival of sound.
Again,
I looked at the sky
only as far as
the open door allowed.
Nothing happened.
There was peace.
Peace—
as I softly repeated the word,
all these small things
surged within me,
and I nearly
burst into tears.
