The mantras swim and barely respond
to the limbs and hands that invade their pond
“Be the change you want to see in the world,” more laps

cramped up laps, collect the birch fluid, boil it, everyone claps
“May all beings be happy,” for you have made syrup out of saps

The hands track to touch – they remove the protective slime from leathery wings
Does it irritate the mantras?
“Accomplisher of the sublime,” the caged fish sings
The rays
The beams
Their wings

On a cold morning with a halo of ice crusting the edge of the panes
And ribbons of fog extending outward like roots or veins
I press my fork through the cakes so they give way
Drowned in syrup like the coins at the bottom of the bay
I think of the mantras swimming in circles; creatures of divinity
For unlike me, they live, respire, and know
the meaning of infinity

[Featured Image: Interior of Fure’s Cabin by the National Park Service]

As babies we were held skin to skin
(Perhaps why the feeling is so distantly familiar
Like the tune of a music box you heard as a child
Like simple words sung at night
Like the sound of a voice through a tin can on a wire
Like the sound of the birds in your hometown)
It is a transfusion of sunlight
It is better than a campfire
It is the feeling of being a lamp-lit drifting dust mote on
A breeze
You carry the weight of the earth
But have the translucency and lightness of a photon

The ant has latched on to my ankle bone
Pincers like the universe
Developing venom
The ants
I’ve always been tune averse, too nervous
But this venomous music has caught me alone
And I have to dance.