I live at the foot of a sacred mountain,
the wettest place on earth. My own feet
dangle over the claw bathtub
interrupting a ray of sunlight.
Waterfalls plunge off the ridge from last night’s rain,
and emerald valleys roll like a blown sari for miles
to the lighthouse.
There’s room for everything in my home,
and rooms for nothing too.
On a full moon, with red silk pillows strewn on my lawn,
you’d think you’re dreaming—lost
in the sunken gardens of a Balinese palace.
What my friends say, and I say it as well.
Lucky, for now.
I hope someday you’ll see
the true poverty of construction,
the plainest rooms where my Master once lived.
[KF8] How giant they seem within.
His eye for beauty, life,
and the finest drawn line of what is holy.
"What you could have made for me on this island," He’d say.
"On the higher ground, or on hilltops above the sea..."
All of this seems plain now, like all past errors.
For a break in mundane work, I escape to coastal hotels.
Each one, a palace without a king.
They put His dwellings to shame.
In His last two years, He took refuge
in a two-room drywall box in the jungle.
Set away—even from the bustle on His own hermitage.
The clamor behind pinched foreheads.
Someday, surely, they’ll remark on it.
This building here?
Where He forged the art of the world?
Seven lifetimes of human output?
Under this rusting, corrugated roof every humid afternoon?
It is this ramshackle hut He called home?
Yes.
Behind our wooden door we invite you to see
an oval line of orchids, changed daily.
Tracing where His body lay on the carpet.
Where He died, working.
Six thousand years ago today
during the Age of Exhaustion.
That fleeting time, when, for almost nothing,
you could set across the white-capped ocean,
drag your poor vessel up the beach
and stand breathless with only a leaf in hand.
With half shut eyes
you’d soon be dared to open.