I’ll not burn brightly in the forest this night,
it’s rained for days and the hunt has been dry.
My kin remember the sculptors of this rock,
how they stood loose in the face of our jaws,
in the vibration of our stares.
We are death,
but these robed men
simply looked back at us,
and turned gently to their work.
They hummed and chanted, smiling
as the hammers hit their marks,
never missing, always taking a breath to make
their aim true. We admired that in them.
We know that pause, the beat between beats.
We asked ourselves is this a god,
is this a real god, and we heard
the men say Buddha, and the men say when
Buddha died, and the men say this have I heard
before saying the poetry to each other,
so we knew he was not a god.
He sleeps with us now, alone in our forest
where we are the god.
His face is like their faces,
but not like your face, full of yearning–
that attachment to what you don’t even have.
The curve they made of his head
lies so comfortably under my length,
my tail feels light and ready.
This is the silent moment, my power low in my belly,
the pads of my feet cooled by mist,
my eyes unfocused here, my heart slow,
this is now, and now, and it is always now,
this silent moment before a scent or a rustle
urges me to uncoil.
from this picture on Facebook. 6 April 2015