A MAGAZINE OF ZEN AND THE ARTS



It opens and it closes,

it opens and it closes

and it is always open

and it is always closed.

It opens and it closes

and it does not open

and it does not close.

It always is

and it is never

anything or anywhere.

It is.

The taste of an orange,

the smell of cooking soup,

a hand touching naked skin,

people waiting at a bus stop

on a morning of steaming rain.