Too much coffee
Better than sober.

The question
No answer
And yet the oak trees.

Ochre walls
Ochre floor
Man of clay.

Distrust the senses
What then is left?

This flower
No different
Just as it is.

My bed upon a rock
My fireplace a hollow tree
Mosquitoes too.

That lost skill
Of great artists.

The windows too
The empty room.

Turning back
Impossible country.

Talk of silence
Never quite
Says it.

How much more
Is missed
By words?

This word now
On the tip of my finger


About Jamie Nicol

Living in the forested hills of Catalonia, overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. Zen teacher, recovering philosopher, small-scale natural farmer. Writing just what comes.
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