09-27-2011, 10:02 PM
The Return of the Toad With the Buddha Spirit
Was it his texture, his solidarity with the soil,
or his gaze?
The calm in those dark orbs,
the very Yoda, Yogi, the Tai Chi
of the way he stretched each leg,
his disregard of me as if
he knew the foundation, the garden
were really his. These beatific warts.
After the daffodils, after the bold iris,
he oozed out to take his place
beside the rose’s gnarled feet,
to meditate.
When a flesh toad lives
between a stone Buddha and a rose,
something blooms
like rain.
Was it his texture, his solidarity with the soil,
or his gaze?
The calm in those dark orbs,
the very Yoda, Yogi, the Tai Chi
of the way he stretched each leg,
his disregard of me as if
he knew the foundation, the garden
were really his. These beatific warts.
After the daffodils, after the bold iris,
he oozed out to take his place
beside the rose’s gnarled feet,
to meditate.
When a flesh toad lives
between a stone Buddha and a rose,
something blooms
like rain.