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—for Ryumon
Often I think of Siddhartha Gautama
meditating in the jungle
among the creatures short & tall—
elephants, gazelles, mynas & especially
the small, inexhaustible flies.
Paintings never show
the Enlightened One frowning
as tiny sentient beings
swarm his lips (no) eyes (no) nose
nor do statues
lift golden fingers
to brush away
gnats buzzing about
the Awakening.
In the old books are stories
of those who came before,
rishis so devout
that they were bit by snakes
or partly chewed by tigers
yet continued to pray
without moving
or even, it seems,
noticing much.
My practice is less steadfast.
It crawls up my skin,
twitches & tickles,
skitters along the surface,
makes me wonder
if these are my ancestors
come to encourage me,
as relations often do,
in the most inconvenient of ways.
Everything has a skin—
this cushion with its thousand stitches,
stones & their history of water,
the smallest flea, its translucent blue-black wing.
But isn’t the nasturtium
agitated
by the hummingbird’s
constant noisy slurs?
Does the pond resent the wind
brushing ripples into the portrait
of mountains & clouds
it has been painting
all morning?
How did the Buddha learn to say
to the she-mosquitoes,
“You, with your fertile thirst,
come to me
& drink”?
Tassajara, September 2007
∞