Saturday, October 24, 2020

Amitabha and the Incidental Perfection of the Chimes

The winds turn paper flags
Surrendering the lotus
To vulgarity

The only peace we'll ever know

The prayer wheels are spun
Into the spiral
Sending the sorrows and virtues
Simultaneously 
Into the valley

That receives what seems an insurmountable 
Amount to let go:
The heart, the mind, the soul

Hands turn with the weight
Of immersion in suffering 
And cannot release

The head to the ground in prayer
Brings the emptiness 
At the world's center
Where everything will begin

At the second prayer
Even the birds start to laugh