A flower bloom
Of porcelain
A dozen tiles
Or more
Of porcelain
A dozen tiles
Or more
A stupa grand
And towering
Each tile placed
By hands of men
A stupa grand
And towering
Each tile placed
By hands of men
Some things need
Just a hint
Of the plenty
Others deem
Essential
I remind myself
There are always options
Where they begin
Is as much a mystery
As where they end
But their promise of adventure
Calls to me
Aum, it says
A young man throws sticks to his dog
Which gleefully, gaspingly
Retrieves them
I love it so much
I tend to find it
Where others see only the everyday
Only the expected