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The Making of a Buddha

How long

has it been there

punctuating the vast meadow

stoically rooted, drinking from the

earth’s breasts?

Cheating death

bending never breaking

the maniac wind, whipping, screaming

fails again, frustrated

leaves. Leaves rustle, settle down

in peace. Night grows a blanket

for Time’s gloved hands

that swaddle the tree

that knows secrets scattered by the wind

where the summer sun goes

and the eternal schemes of the universe.

It counts comets