Written in Lake Tahoe on April 16, 2015

There are certain monks who live in trees

They are called Dendrites

They’re sheltered by a roof of leaves

And make a wooden bed at night.

Art on their walls always changes

By light, storm and shade

They worship Creator who plants and arranges

Awed by what is made

As a child, I sat in trees

A branch became my chair

And as I reflected pensively

Beauty dwarfed my cares

Life around me still moved on

Though I felt quite stuck

Higher heights and horizon

Kept me climbing up

Now holy men don’t become as such

Based on how they feel

They disconnect from illusions

And join to what is real

They see the ground as a gift

That serves to hold them up

And every tree a mansion

A home built with love

The world we know will likely live

Far beyond our days

Rather than own and conquer it

Why not be amazed?