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]