by George Ross
An old monk in saffron robes caresses a calico cat,
while the steady purr of ancient chant fills the air with peace.
A callow novice approaches, shy, burdened with questions and doubt,
bows low on bended, tender knees, soft palms together, held high.
The Master lowers the languid cat to the sun-bleached marble floor,
turns to the neophyte robed in white whose wai he returns with a bow.
The calico cat—poised, alert, on guard between Master and novice—
a hunter, she scans her bountiful lands: the temple called Wat Sakham.
—Master, wise Master, do you know the day that you will die?
—Young monk, I know exactly when my day to die will come…
A small form darts by the sangkhawat, quickens the tiger within—
cat crouches, she slinks, she follow the wind, eyes locked firm on her prey.
—Master, wise Master, do you know the day that I will die?
—Young monk, I know exactly when your time to die will come.
—Oh, wise Master, tell me now, so I may be prepared.
Mouse dazed!
Spellbound!
Claws drawn! Paw raised!
Victim blinks! Fate jumps!
SWAT!
—Young monk, I tell you . . . you will die now.
—Master! I am not ready!
—Then, monk, you’ll never be ready
to die—nor ready to live.
SNAP!
the head of the mouse bows, birds in the Bo tree startle,
the cat grabs her catch in her teeth, lays it at the Master’s feet.
—Master! I am still alive! You said I would die now. . .
—O foolish monk, wake up! Whenever you die, it will be now.
The calico cat in saffron sleeps, the Master dwells in the Now;
the novice, cross-legged, sits at peace, ready to die—his vow.
