winter in a moment, in its fullness

in a little place, in a brief moment - winter looks like this.



dry wisps of yellowed winter grass. a cold, thin breeze. snow rustling like sugar.

the great sufi poet rumi saw winter in its fullness . . .


winter is a time for death.
do you think death is a bad thing?
then you still haven't got it.
you've lived countless lives and died
countless deaths in an endless process of evolution.
each death has brought you more life.
without, death, there is no rebirth.
the ultimate death is nothing to do with the body.
it is the death of your self as separate from God.
you are standing at the edge of his ocean of love.
plunge below the surf of separation.
dive into the mystical depth.
dissolve yourself into that sea.
like a moth around a candle, be irresistibly drawn
to the light until you are engulfed by flames in an inferno of communion.
the lover chooses the fire because he knows
the secret: "the honey is worth the sting." rumi

little spaces and colours

i've walked by this billboard many times. it's not unique in any way and so (as with so much) i consigned it to the wallpaper of the landscapes that i pass by and ignore.

but today as i passed it, something about it caught my eye.

there were colours inside the little grills. colours in the rusting framework.

so i stopped and really looked at the little spaces and colours.

winter zen

winter . . .



a day of fog and melting snow . . . in the woods a silvered silence . . . the yellow flags of leaves still waving . . . tree trunks like candles reaching into the aether . . . in a time long before this one the haiku master issa saw this and wrote . . .

"i see them now . . . how they were ... bare winter trees"



closer to the ground . . . the tall grasses of summer bow down under the weight of the winter snows . . .



inside a similar moment the japanese haiku master ikkyu wrote . . .

"the world before my eyes is wan and wasted, just like me. the earth is decrepit, the sky stormy, all the grass withered. no spring breeze even at this late date, just winter clouds swallowing up my tiny reed hut."



issa wrote . . . "the mountain hermit's fire is rising... winter rain. "