The hermit & the wheel of fortune
are the tightrope
across the abyss —
they are the path
between the lion's jaws,
they are the koan
leaping.

The hermit rides the waterwheel
& like a circus seal he balances
the round world on his nose.
He turns with the wheel
in the wildly splashing water
& is never wet
& never upside down.
The descent
is never twice the same,
his balancing posture
is never twice the same,
but with each turn
he stands in triumph
upon the ascending wheel.

Turning inward, the hermit dreams
of a herd of tigers
all chasing their tails,
of a wildflower's center
& its autumn seed,
of the sun in the sky
traveling west to east,
& the dew the moon leaves
on the flowers,
of a leaf with a picture in it
of a deep reflecting pool
whose waters ripple
until he jumps. . .