Ango Morning [3]

sounds of tenzo’s teacups
and pots for oatmeal
filter through the zendo’s morning incense,

through my regret
for the unfolding of
the evening before.

a patch of emerging sunlight
slanted on the old oak floor
receives my prostration.

Ango Morning [2]

winter dawn strains through
slatted windows;
snow sits over the grounds
with no thought of attainment.
tears in the zendo fall,
unencumbered by gravity.