My teacher popped
      out of his body
           — he’s gone.
 
Turned into a gold wedding band
            thrown
                overboard.
 
As you might imagine
talking to him is
        problematic 
 
Some call him dead – caput.
        But he’s just filling space 
between gravestones.
 
My guru, shaman & sage.
               I hear his jazz
& see he joined a quartet!
 
He can’t give instructions
but in the rushing wind
I hear him improvise   wildly
 
Rattle of reeds 
   Swack of drum stick 
       Swirl of sagebrush 
 
He doesn’t have students,
no devotees. Unencumbered,  
he’s having a great time.