In Praise of the Lama
I have been here ever since I left;
watching the flying flowers of Tara Mandala
flutter above the faces of their earth bound sisters.
The red winged black bird still sways on slender reeds,
his shrill cries announcing the interloper –
rooted beings stretch to hear his voice.
Green clad mothering hills roll away
brushed by the bodies of clouds,
necklaced in rainbow radiance.
Elk graze on the verge of the forest,
too shy to ravage the lettuce in the hard won garden
as the brazen wild horses do.
Young coyotes squabble at midnight, shrill as children
on a playground. At dawn their elders, lamenting
the first edge of the day, call the wandering pups to sleep.
Here the holy one has said, byung-b” – called into
this valley a Mandala in the wilderness where those
Blessed to know of its existence come to take Refuge.
Barbara A. Coloe