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.
Wow - such wonderful imagery!