Poor letter O— so much like zero
without anything to give or share—
all the numbers have marched onward
without you to bigger and better things.

Alone letter O— only the lonely
the hole in the sock or the roof
ever in need to be mended
until one day you wake up

from an empty dream telling you
that you're OK, wise as the owl,
vast as the ocean, precious as pearl,
round as the eye, the sun and moon.

Rich letter O— so much like zero
Mother of numbers, all born from you
Older than time, sacred as Om
Gold ring without beginning or end.

Empty letter O— like the Mind
uncluttered, unnamed, unformed,
like pure empty space containing
this entire infinite universe.

        — Peter Y. Chou
             Los Altos Hills, 7/8/2006
             Poetry Workshop with Ingrid Wendt
             "Poetry Models as Prompts"
             30th Annual Foothill Writers' Conference

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email: (7-8-2006)