At dawn each day, as <br />the monk awoke upon the polished floor, and <br />rolled his bedding mat, the Way – <br />the way things are, the way they follow – <br />walked its way beside him. <br /> <br />Later, he would take his brush, <br />the ink-block, paper, and the water-pot <br />he filled each day with water from the river, <br />and find a place, among the woods, <br />or by the river bank; where the Way <br />would teach him old things, seen as if now new. <br /> <br />Most often, he would sit near an ancient tree <br />which had so much to teach him; <br />its trunk and branches gnarled and twisted <br />with the wisdom of the Way. <br /> <br />The tree was, as great trees are, the most <br />adventurous of artists: every Spring, <br />it would put forth new twigs, <br />as awkward as a newborn deer on <br />stick-like legs, trying to stand and walk; <br />the tree would let the Way make it <br />as awkward, unsymmetrical, <br />as inartistic as could be… <br /> <br />then slowly through the year, the tree, the Way <br />would make of this, a new and daring beauty; <br /> <br />and the monk would learn of it, <br />take up the brush, moisten the ink-block, <br />and – brush gently swishing black on white – <br />draw his daily lesson through the year… <br /> <br />and because he was so loved and famed, <br />connoisseurs of that most ancient art <br />would beg his paintings; find their breath <br />held, at his daring; their eyes would learn the Way. <br /> <br />When the monk, now old, joined the Immortals, <br />his many students gathered near that ancient tree. <br />They said, the tree did not seem sad at all; <br />threw out new leaves, seemed to rejoice; <br />as teachers do, whenever pupils shine.<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-monk-and-the-tree/
