The moment I embrace, I’m told,
my Buddha nature is the moment
the light shines in. The moment
I allow the Holy Spirit to course
through me is when I’m healed.
What about my flower nature?
Chrysanthemum, peony, rose?
I’ve one that was run over with
a lawn mower, then a truck,
then a stampede of children,
before dying of pesticide
exposure, then drought.
Every year it comes back.
Every year it shakes its
lioness head and roars.
I’m of the nature of one
who, when suffering and
asked how I’m doing, say
no complaints through
a jaw clenched by grief.
What is my nature then?
That of a springboard,
turnstile, anvil, plank?
We see but darkly now
but will one day see
face to face, vis-à-vis
our being, undefiled:
a window cleared of
grime, clematis or
another creeping
plant surrounding
the wood frame, as
branches do a vine.
