Polishing The Zen Stones

The old monk swept away the sticks and leaves
As dogs pulled on the hem of his robe,
Oblivious to this, he polished the zen stones,
Uncovering them one by one,
Wish fulfilling jewels hidden from
Everyone’s view but his,
His broom could have easily
Shooed the dogs away,
Dogs that were not really vicious,
Only insistent and constantly begging him
For the morsel of food
That he often gave them,
Still, he kept at the stones,
Each one glowing and vibrating,
Revealing itself in its true nature,
One, a mirror in which he saw his ugliness,
Another, ruby red reminding him of the Heart,
Others reflecting the different brilliant colors
Of his mind that he swept away,
When he finished, he walked the stones
Counting them as he walked,
Reflecting on their brilliance
Pausing on each one to feel its vibrations
Before leaning his broom
Against the monastery wall,
To have a glass of cherry wine
Before retiring for the night.