Hidden Mountain

In the Saha world,

where falsehoods hold sway,

staying true is an art form.


Leaf underfoot

fern on branch

crow calls out

deep in the wood.

The Pure Land

is just out from town.


Worm-hunting wrens at dawn

completely ignore

my need for sleep.


Despite Winter’s grasp

I can still hear

the haunted chirping

of katydids.


Beautiful, beleaguered world

Heart-Eye open ---

Winter gratitude.


Fifty years of wandering

only to become

a hidden mountain

nestled within a city.