After two weeks sitting in the dharma hall
with legs crossed
eyes half closed
reciting mantras
I read the little book of Roethke's poems
entitled The Far Field
and with each poem
salt tears welled up
that was some fifty years ago
and other than the morning
that my mother died
lying on the sofa
in our living room
seemingly at peace and eager
so she'd told us
to rejoin her husband
in the world to come
never again have I been blessed
to feel so vividly
quickly and easily
the feelings that I keep
safely under wraps