53 years standing in the cold north wind
even the marrow is chilled to ice
no shaded grave could be more frigid
what is this warm breath that clouds the mirror?
Offered here are some pen scratchings from a ScurrilousMonk. Ordained Soto Zen priest,a disreputable beggar, lost from the fold, homeless, and storm tossed in the wilds of Samsara. A travel essay, from this long strange journey that vanishes in an instant, and is gone in a flash.
