One of my teachers walks a red streak as he glides across the sheet of ice outside the window

I can’t see if his feet are moving beneath his robes

or if they are even touching the ground
His eyes hold the way through the mountain pass

each step narrower along the rigid crevasse

the taste of boiled shoe broth may never leave the memory on his tongue

but when he speaks he is aware of every word
every single one

He knows silence

And shows the fullness in the emptiness of all things

Infinite potential rests easy in the mirror of his eyes