After reaching for the needle at the bottom of the sea,
I looked up, one summer's eve,
to see old Chang San-Feng open the garden gate,
and join me for Tai Chi.
We said not a word -
hands moving like clouds,
fingers grasping sparrow's tails,
faces smiling, feeling the sun drop,
glimpsing a half moon climbing the clear sky.
Time flowed without a ripple of memories,
Space embraced a crane cooling its wings,
Being began to sing
softly in tune with the moon.
My dusty black dog barked,
sensing something on the warm wind;
speaking her mind,
ears up.
Master Chang was gone.
Leaving one shoe on a beanpole, and
a page of poems -
mementos for mortals.
Two black butterflies
danced wing to wing
in love.
By Michael P. Garofalo
Metaphysical Duet #3
5:11:16 PM 
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