Bowing to Buddha,
breathing beckons my being
to believe that I will become
not cramped and contracted
like my foot’s tendons and muscles
but free like the chirping birds I hear.
Wishing not to wander while I watch the white wall,
incense enters my soul
with the morning mountain spring air.
I smell my fellow souls’ breaths
and hear their souls move.
I move.
I chant.
I bow.
Humility is my robe.
and the thronging of the bell,
a poisonous thorn in my head and heart.
A fever of fears
floods the breath of my blood.
The fever beckons
forgiveness of my being,
but I force forgetfulness
and enter delusions once again.