Hidden

One...
One Buddha is enough
One...
One Buddha is not enough
One...
Buddha is enough
One...
One is Buddha
One...

I am breathing now for an old Buddhist monk
Small as the first moon
Hidden in the stillness of the heron's breathless, emerald wing
And for the yoga that Christ taught
On his Tree of Love.

Though the sun may sit like a chariot on stilts of flame and cherry glass
Suffering into happiness
The way of empty hands
Chanting the secrets that make it bright.

And the wicked,
In that Palace of Ruins,
Curse the pureness
Its purse of one coin.

The small shadows of this day we are given
Bolted into the thrush of emptiness
And here on a Dantean hill,
Confusions may brew
When the Tea-singers begin their vows of silence.

In the raiment of this town
Not of the sun's rising
A tear of sadness for all the worldly joy
As moths return to their torched graves
And springs arrive early in every season
Telegraphed into their own heart of good fortune
Chanting, "One Buddha is not enough."

Buddha.

Springs arrive early in every season.

One Buddha is enough.