SEASON OF OUR CONTENT

It is Spring
and I press my ear
to still barren soil
to hear the hypnotic thrum
of sap reaching slowly skyward
engine straining against gravity
earthworms beginning
their tunneling, marshaling
armies for an exodus
through ever night soil.
I listen to the bud
its velour face
unfolding before
the stillborn sky,
a robin, breast unfurled
stares at me in wonder.

PROGRESSION

It is between the pushing away in the pulling back that it happens. It is there that the seasons progress, one to the next. Winter cedes to spring and is, ever reluctantly, replaced by summer. It is there, as well, that the leaf emerges from the bud and reaches into the sky. And feeling the taste of the sun, unfurls, welcoming rain, which it channels into the earth, the earth where it will, all too soon, fall, there to decompose, only to repeat the cycle at some unimaginable point in the future. We see none of this.

MORNING, ATTENDANT

Morning would find him sitting
calmly, cross-legged, under the apple tree
that sat on the edge of the park,
staring up at a small branch
and carefully watching the bud
begin to open, ignoring all who passed.

Morning would find him sitting
calmly, cross-legged, under the apple tree
watching the fragile blossom open,
staring at its translucent pinkness,
ignoring all who passed.

Morning would find him sitting
calmly, cross-legged, under the apple tree,
watching the apple blossom dance down
onto his folded hands,
ignoring all who passed.

Morning would find him sitting,
calmly, cross-legged under the apple tree
watching the leaf slide free, falling
to rest on the ground beside him.
He turned to all who passed
and said “Come, watch Buddha with me.”