The Weaving

 

I was thinking about

the significance

of the Buddha’s hand

position That right one,

fingertips to Earth.

The left cradling a lotus,

opening     arms

to receive light and waves

of the sun.

 

The thread weaving

on   the    wide,   wide

sheet of it all,     bodies

a kind of needle and straw

 

Rain falling and soaking

into the dirt (how

deep?) and flames

racing up into nothing

(heading for the sun?)

 

I closed my eyes and breathed.

Untitled

‘If you’re going to blossom

first you’ve got to bloom’

and the hammer hit the gong

like Buddha.

We poets,

Voices Without Body,                    expelled

first harsh breaths of waking,

drew long inhalations of determination,

arose.

The stillness of predawn forest,

spirits of the night settled,

broken by footfall on wet rock

of the walking path.

What seems motionless may never rest,

always some recession or arrival.

Again

the penetrating bell.

We emerge in morning light.