Once I offered
this truth as a quilt
patch, a blessing
for my Zen teacher,
who was getting married.
Her husband proved
to be alcoholic,
and the marriage
soon ended.

Years later,
my bowl
of oatmeal
remains
a comfort,
but a hug
surely would
improve its
taste.

I would not have believed myself likely to be a single old feller at this stage of life. But we are offered an endless series of opportunities to change and grow, and this is my current hand.

Once, I put aside my regular koan study with this teacher, a former nun, and dealt with a series of relatively rare sexual koans. It was an unlikely arrangement, but well worth the detour. During this process, I had discussed the homily in this poem with her. The quilt patch simply portrayed a heart and a steaming bowl of oatmeal. The resulting quilt, a gift project organized by our sangha, was colorful and covered the waterfront of topics.