For luck, my children rub my “Buddha belly.”
I like to think it’s full of hundred-acre honey
as I compart the wisdom of a little teddy bear,
of what the rivers know, of thinking under things.
I help them to consider the art of doing nothing,
and the enormous weight of the smallest hug.
Nirvana seems to approach, during bedtime stories,
and compassion’s currents charge each time I
drive to work across the broken valley, where
the humans hunt with attachment’s weight.
I am no Siddhartha, not nearly Bodhisattva,
but the joy of emptiness is a choice experience.
