Wooden boot heels on the stairway crack,
A sullen voice lifts itself, pulls the room closer,
A curling incense trail snakes across my desk,
The tart aroma smells of temples, of China,
Of the Ghong Zhu monastery,
And when she speaks it seems I'm there again,
Again at the foot of the Medicine Buddha
Where I waved a sandalwood wand
And pretended to pray for the health of all peoples.
Today, still praying, but pretending no more.
She calls again, taps her heel.
Rather a laudanum kiss,
Or the passing of sweet opium on my lips,
The visions and the rising of my body
Into the cool night, into the nebulae
Of endless hearts washing on the shores
Of our own Milky Way,
These days, yes, rather to dream.
But the visions are less and less.
They coil and strike when I least expect it.
Winter rain, the run of crickets from my basement
Into the garage and study…
And I feel the pulse of my Appalachians,
The creaking pines and singing elms,
Small creek swishing alongside the back fence,
And I know, I know the secrets of wood and rock,
Of smoke and metal, but today none of this matters,
Today the rains and the earth, my love and the house
Rise up and call. Today, from the top of the stairs,
She asks if I would like a cup of jasmine tea,
Yes, yes to the tea, to her, to this new narcotic
We call our home, our own temple of Buddha and love.
