soft and warm

the grey sky is shattered,
birthing the virgin rains of spring's first light,
as the rounded, full western bellies,
who think they have worked hard enough,
converting, 
subverting,
sit slovenly,
sucking up against the table,
eating hard and fast,
yapping about the tooth and nail wars,
the tooth and nail fight,
they eat quickly,
they can hear the wolves scratching at the door,
they can feel the waves lashing the shore,
but what do they know?

my mind slips back,
white sunshine blasts through the green fields of my younger days,
when I had resigned myself to a simple path,
that quickly gave way to imminent confusion and struggle,

holy knowledge is not the product of scripture,
but rather experience,
like the calloused fists of old fighters,
the worn frets of a Stratocaster,
the dog-eared pages of a poet's notebook,

the crooked path of the Dharma,
moves to the fatigued, wise and worn,
from the soft and warm.