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…