Friday, February 24, 2017

Being Buddha, Being Christ: A Poem

He did not talk about his religion—
only bent and weeded the flower garden,
taught us how to drive the tractor like
a mythical rite of passage,
carved out walking paths with sittin’ logs,
and laughed out-loud at the raccoons
perched up high in the Council Oak.
He dressed simply,
a farmer’s matching shirt and pant
in green, in tan, and brown;
helped us craft bows and arrows from wood;
and gave us bits of meat to feed to the crawfish.
I will never forget how
still, contained, a half-smile on his lips,
he sat on the porch to watch the sunset

with blue-satisfied eyes.


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