THE PERSONA - THE MASK

Zen

I grow weary of torturous intricacies
Stumbling through the labyrinth of modern thought
A world whose depth and breadth are riddled
With catacombs
of twisted logic

"But was he really mad?"
The professor begged
His eyes fevered with a wish:
In complication lies importance

"Yes"
I wrote in neat small letters on the exam
"And so are you"
Then I melted into the autumn sunshine
Strangely unconcerned

You cannot torture
Meaning into being
You can not draw tangled phantom parameters for the soul
Or squeeze hidden meanings from a flower

But, life can be a mirror
If you look for contortions
You will find them

Celebrate stillness
An effortless unfolding
Soft as babies breath

I will dig the earth
Watch slow the clouds feathered flight
I see through the rain


© Edwina Peterson Cross


(After reading Foucault's Pendulum. Disrespectfully dedicated to Bernie Smith who made me read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance while trying to finish my Master's Degree and teaching full time.)