I see how spring is setting itself up to be new again. At least in Oregon while my other part of life (in Vermont) is frozen solid. I know how much is swirling in my head concerning decisions that need to be made. I am grateful for sitting zazen, breathing with my little sangha of people who look for a peaceful way to move and not be afraid of deep silence when it is needed. Soon my poetry collection How I Learned to Be White will be coming out from Antrim House.
I was rushing. As if radio news about invasive
Arctic lupines criss-crossing Iceland meant climate change
is a creeper, not an avalanche of swamp brown.
Or maybe my hurry was because of the sign
for the dental office around the corner that reminded me
of an adolescent boy who forty years ago journaled
in my class about the puppy who whined and jumped
at the garden fence when he and his parents rushed to get on
a helicopter out of Saigon. He was luckier than most
of those stranded in razor-topped compounds. The doctor.
One quick errand at the other end of the church building
was all I needed to do. Until I stopped. The sanctuary.
I am not a Christian. A plush green rug shushed
under my sneakers. I stood at the back of an empty vault
of dark wood beams, padded pews, banks of organ pipes,
three wavering votive candles and stained-glass windows
of the crucified that had yellowed under protective plastic.
Two thin willow-wands crossed on the altar. Frail willow
that would leaf out soon if left in the woods. Insufficient
to hold the weight of anything. Twigs tied with a simple knot
for all roods, our wobbling earth, the tired and poor.
Whatever I am, I bow as I bow to the Buddha to let his peace
come home to my heart. Namaste comes easily;
light-within-me / light-within-you.
Whatever you are, whatever I am, one
under our weight. Lotus afloat on holy water.
© 2018 Tricia Knoll
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