I sit on a lotus
petal and observe a mountain in the distance.
It floats above the horizon like a mirage, and perhaps it is.
The flower rises from muddy water and
climbs the sky
like an avatar blossoming into sevenfold salvation,
opening and closing to the royal rhythm of
But the mountain is suddenly anchored to igneous rock,
and I am seated on a fallen tree trunk, a
My path to the divine traverses rutted roads
that do not blossom into green meadows of
My feet gather bone dust on heel and toe, heel and toe.
I will not float to the heavens on a blue
I shall take the long way home and study the toad and fern
and the humdrum ministrations of the
I will plumb the depths of eveningtide when humble crickets sing.