Youth

12. YOUTH
I look through the big
windows at the airport
again,
far from home
in 2014,
disconnected and young.
In my bag,
a book of zen poems
that I read and re-read.
They all say:
Don't worry.
Dreamed dust is always blowing.
All this is a veil.

The veil of youth
is lifting in me constantly.
Far from home again
while everything is
born by my eye.
Only now and this
airport window and
whatever I see.
The dissolving
youth of things
is shown as emptiness
dressed up as spring.

All million colors
and everyone I've known
passing through a mind
and it's this same mind
that was born,

wild and empty,
wailing in electric lights
since birth.
Far from home at last,
and I'm still trying
to let the spring emerge
from beneath
every thought
unknown and vast
but my youth and
self assurance fill the sky.
There's no moon,
my young mind thinks,
in a totally black night sky.
But there is a moon.