Before eight o’clock in the morning
in deep winter I was getting ready
to sprinkle raisins on my cereal –
they were wizened, almost human
One became under my eyes an old
and wrinkled miniature of the Buddha
I looked in wonder as each resolved
into a separate dried old wise man
Might my dead father be among them?
I searched until I saw a faint plume
of smoke rising up from one, line
so close to vanishing I doubted it
I took that Buddha in my fingers
and, sure enough, it was warmer
than any of the others, so warm
it hurt my tender fingertips
I dropped it on the mound of brown
eleven grain flakes, then followed
it with more Buddhas from the box,
then poured milk into the bowl,
and heard the faintest hiss as
my father’s pipe was extinguished.
Buddhas with milk and cereal I ate
as the sun turned cold ground red
Then I woke before eight o’clock
in deep winter, ruddy son rising
From “Lessons From Dreaming” 2001