Nobody fails at meditation
like I do.

They say,
Note the arrival of thoughts

and allow them to pass through
like clouds crossing a summer sky.

Let judgment go.

But one cloud
is always running

like a woman with a torn dress,

the wind pressing its folds
against her body,

and I suddenly wish
to wheel around on my horse

and thunder back to the farmhouse,
spattering her white frock

with mud as I swing from the saddle
into her trembling arms.