Buddha in the backyard
by David Ackley
for Penny
He sits lotus against the rough granite wall
I built at the back of our yard
Under a spread of evergreen,
pensive, patient, mild.
In his moss apron he could cook
The cure-all, but he'd rather
Entertain the gaze of our cat, Bella,
The bear trucking past
the nameless grey fox;
and the doe
that eats our arbor vitae;
the skiers walkers bikers
passing through
It seems now, in bringing him from the concrete statue place
On Route 2 in Hardwick
And putting him where each of us can see the other
Strangely here with a garden surrounded by forest,
The long winter snows
The white house, and greenhouse and odd carouse
On the patio with frozen daiquiris raucous
So far from figs, and blazing sun and Bodhi Gaya
we were asking something of him, as one does
Tiresomely of gods and prophets.
What would you know, I think to hear him say,
if not the moss?
|
6
favs |
904 views
9 comments |
159 words
All rights reserved. |
Author's Note
Passing through.
Other stories by David Ackley
Tags
This story has no tags.
Buddhas and their conniving, inspiring silences!
Good work, David. (I have to assume that Bella naps comfortably from time to time in the soft cool moss in the Buddha's lap.)
ohmmmmmmmmmmmmm... Nice mood.
Enjoyed.
*
Thanks one and all. Om, indeed.
Wonderful piece, David.
"The long winter snows
The white house, and greenhouse and odd carouse
On the patio with frozen daiquiris raucous"
*
Thanks, Sam. It appears he is at home wherever he is.
Profound. I think of it in different ways: I think of that cliche about sweating small stuff--that even without the moss gifts are present. He is at home wherever he is.
And, I think of moss being one the first stages of decay and the poem is reminding us of mortality.
Interesting. I had fun thinking about it.
Dianne, I enjoyed reading your gloss of the poem. It's gratifying in more than one way that you took the time and interest to engage with it. And it certainly helps to see your take in your own words, enlarging my perspective and,in fact, the poem itself.
Thanks indeed.
David