Ceremony

Ceremony

For the woman next to me it was hard going.
She kept plucking tissue after tissue from a box.
To me each looked like a beautiful white flower
That upon being picked magically grew back.
And I remembered the springs of my childhood,
The purple froth of violets under honeysuckle
Just when I was certain winter would never end,
The tulips coming up with their colorful cups
Like children wanting more. Then I thought
Of that sutra the Buddha taught 
In which he held up a single flower 
And only one monk, Mahākāśyapa, smiled. 
The woman had picked the last tissue. 
The box was empty, as if the earth was 
Out of flowers to offer her. She wept harder, 
The used tissues balled up in the folds 
Of her sleeping bag. But there was another box
In which more flowers were packed tight,
The way they pack parachutes.
I crawled on my hands and knees to reach it
And brought it back to her. She laughed 
And thanked me, then resumed crying, 
Picking the same flower, the same flower 
Growing back every time.