Siddhartha, I drink coffee and think of you beneath the tree,
lime green leaves latticed on a cerulean sky,
branches tangled like thoughts while your mind unknots into clarity,
and the you-ness and tree-ness and here-ness and now-ness and be-ness combine.
And then you stand. I imagine the pain in your legs from sitting 49 days.
The grass catches you when you fall. Green silk cradles your cheek. Everything Buddha.
When you stand again, you run to feel your legs, the wind, the grass, the sun, the world, the way.
Siddhartha, I imagine your arms outstretched and your robes are like wings.
You run barefoot, nearly laughing, head thrown back, alone.
You are the runner and the running, the dancer and the dance, the song, the audience, the one who sings.
I think of you, Siddhartha, and the path you run, the providing tree, the bluest sky, the grass that holds you up,
And I’m mindful of my coffee, the dark roast of the beans, and the radiant and present warmth of the cup.
Today’s words form a Shakespearean sonnet, but without any meter whatsoever.