From the balcony in the back of my office building,
I see a Buddhist monastery over the fence,
including ochre-robed monks, ceylon-brown bald heads,
an eight-point-wheeled driveway gate, and a tree;
a planting of the famous Bodhi tree from Bodhgaya,
under which an insight dropped on the head of the Buddha.

It was full and green, promising to drop big figgy insights
on the ceylon-brown heads of those ochre-robed monks,
who encircled it with a profound platform and little white fence.
Quietly and mindfully, the garden was weeded of needless thoughts.

Those tropical monks knew nothing of the cold apocalyptic frost
of Northern winters and the suddenness before such judgements.
The tree bore no insightful fruits, and so was withered.

"Cover your tree next time", I yelled from the balcony.
Watching the mind without guarding the heart is a dream.
Unless the Lord guards the city, the watchmen keep awake in vain.

John Smyrl (C) 2007