If my home is a hermitage
The thirty trees in my yard
Are part of a great forest
And the lilies and ferns
Edged by broken flagstones
Are a real Zen garden
Surrounded by a picket fence
Which could be an ancient stone wall
And when I go
Down to the corner store
And give my wallet to a man
Who holds a gun to my face
I am merely begging
For rice in my bowl
And if I ever
Get back home
To my wife and daughters
I will never desire them
To resemble monks