The tingling sensation on my skin. The deep muscle ache in my upper arms and thighs. The creak in my back. The throb in my left forefoot. The tenitis hum in my ears. But I smell the aroma of air-fried, sweet-potato fries. I hear Mira’s humming in the kitchen. I see the twilight sky turn…

The towering, ancient redwood she hugs. The great Sequoia, in whose tunnel we stand. The Cypress before which he poses. The one whose species I forget, but against whose trunk I leaned as I sit upright in zazen posture, legs together in the Burmese tradition. how intertwined are all of our roots these trees and…

My hands are a reader’s hands. They hold open the covers of good books with practiced ease and no fatigue. My hands are a poet’s hands. The right grasps the pen with skillful poise and delivers a peculiarly modern form of sanskrit only I can read. Both possess fingers that dance across keyboards with a…