Only Passing Clouds

To be—

and already

the wind has answered.

To not be—

and still

the pine leans in silence.

Between these two

a question forms,

then dissolves

before it is spoken.

The mind reaches

for edge or center,

for something to hold—

but finds only

passing clouds

borrowing the sky.

Is it better

to grasp at shadows,

or let them fall

through open hands?

Even doubt

is just another ripple

on a pond

that does not choose

to reflect.

The monk smiles—

not from knowing,

not from unknowing—

but because

no answer

was ever needed

for the question

that never remained.