Tao Writer (April 17, 1948 -)
You were here this morning when I woke
lying somewhere between the rays of
the sun and the dew in the air.
Sometimes I feel you at night when my room
is dark and my eyes are unable to focus –
A soft weight upon the foot of my bed
as if you were lightly sitting down.
You are in the voice of the humming bird’s song and in
the honking of the taxi waiting outside for its fare.
I remember you were there too, last night when
you moved your body next to me in my sleep.
Your breath moving in and out, you arms enclosing.
You are in the river rolling over the boulders, true to your course,
moving tree branches, rubber balls and plastic bottles aside.