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.