DHARAMSALA DHARMA DREAMING
The hand of the monk
agéd, insistent, but gentle too,
takes and holds mine.
The monk sits, the Dharma before him,
sacred texts resting in their saffron shroud.
My presence completes
this circle.
Mountain monastery
calling him; it’s not home.
Other mountains
he’s climbed. Escape.
High places divide
this world from that,
that time from this.
His loving touch, his smile,
linger in rarefied air.
Air drenched with the warmth
of the Dharma,
in this late monsoon
restaurant of the Snow Lion,
south of his land.
Notes from the Hermit's Cave 