I know not how it happened,
or when.
Or if it was closer to now,
or then.
But there at the top of the hill:
Sitting under the moon…sitting za zen,
I heard the words from
the lips of the night:
“You are loved…you are my friend”.
(And I hope you find it too, my friend,
there upon the hill, just up from Old Cotterman’s glen).
