The brown snail on the road.
I didn’t have time to stop for him
although he was beautiful
sticking out of his shell home,
his long, slimy head with antennae.
Hello—good-bye. I walked fast over
him, but didn’t step on him.

My red beads. I hope
to hold on to them my whole life,
or what’s left of it. The beads ought
to be able to outlast me.
I can patch them if one
cracks open like an autumn chestnut.

Chant, chant. I use my head but
don’t know how to chant in the heart.
Maybe I’m too orthodox and have to learn.
I think I’m far out, but actually
I’m a timid and conservative soul
and don’t know
what it takes to love.

I saw no one at all on the walk,
although a bird feared my approach.
Walked into the tent of
tree forest, leaving no shadow.
I counted and counted—
9, 10, 11, and 12—my rounds.
The hard dirt.

(_Gentle Power_)