To emerge from the mists of time in ancient China. To stand by the Western gates, as the guard states down Laoxi himself. To watch the old master follow him into the gatehouse.
To place my hands over a brazier warming the drafty abode, as the former Imperial Librarian seats himself at a desk. To watch him spread out a blank roll of paper, dab his brush, and paint the first characters…
“The Way you can go
isn’t the real way…”
To witness hanzi after hanzi flow down. To see, through tear-stained eyes, Laoxi write the Tao Te Ching.
To see him hand over his masterpiece of embodied wisdom to the guard. To then watch him pass through the gate, never to be seen again.
river of heaven
the crossing of such
veils of time
Over at dVerse, where Lisa pubtends Tuesday Poetics, we time-travel.
The pub is open! Come join us!
Frank J. Tassone 
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