Grace and Peace to you.
Buddha sits in the garden
by the corner of the garage
and smiles. Doesn’t he get cold,
sitting there in his flimsy robe,
frost on the domes of his shoulders?
He doesn’t seem to. Snow settles
in the folds of his robe
along his contented belly
and he just smiles.
Ice drips on his foot from the eaves
and he doesn’t even move it. He just
Wouldn’t you like to be
so serene and contented,
so attentive without distraction,
so impervious to attitudes
and free of demands?
Yeah, well, he’s made of cement.
Doesn’t that make it easier?
Why should it, since you yourself are made
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