All the small boy wants is the tangerine 
robe of the Tibetan monk, and to touch 

his chocolate arms smooth as pashmina 
curled at work above the sacred mandala. 

The child’s getting there is all 
one-pointed beginner’s mind 

rushing beyond the gold museum rope
designed to separate us.

Slipping past all obstacles, the boy
makes a beeline for attainment.

The monk, steadily dropping indigo dots 
of sand down a narrow metal slide 

turns seamlessly to greet the boy.
Hurry slowly, he says, then takes

the child’s hand and presses it in a blessing
against his wide monk forehead.