Buddha Smile

 

At times, I imagine myself a child

in old India, standing before the Buddha.

My feet, like his, are bare and sink

into the moist, dark, brown earth caressed

by the small puddle of dirty water.

The sun hides behind his head, casting

a shade on me and creating a crown for him.

I look at the man and ask What is this?

as I spread my arms outward in a motion

suggesting this, that, the trees and rocks,

the chickens and eggs, the flower and mud,

the infant, the old woman, him, me—everything.

He waits still, gazes at me, and silently smiles.

 

ean