Clogged - up to the eaves time to roll one's sleeves, is this the way of zen raking the leaves again, observing one's thoughts, but never tying the two together ? Asking of mother earth what was ' I ' before birth and of the autumn sun what will ' I ' be when I'm gone ? When letting go would say don't grip your life as booty, colourful hints of red voicing a dying beauty ; tossing thoughts with the leaves, clearing a way for Zen - what I heave to the wind the wind may blow back again :
Fancy I hear a voice - ' You are the trees turned yellow, turn you to brown despair, 'til you are ripe and mellow, three pounds of flax for a rope - hang you on threads of hope :
The whole edifice of belief is built on the ancient brain, clear it away and let it flow- and rain, rain, rain ; Love speaks through nature with such sad empathy, and is this less than the swirl of grouts, in my cup of tea?
(from the mysticseed) http://www.zalivanda.com/id3.html
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