Clouds and the White Arms of Compassion

Wind-tattered prayer flags flutter above the Ura Valley.
Whatever we proffer is never quite ample: 

bruised yellow apples, 
yak butter for the altar lamps, 

a few lesser banknotes 
with the serious face of the king.

                 *

The cliff-side 
pines concealed
 
by fog, nearly 
vanished. 

Void outside, void 
within. East 

of Trongsa, reclining 
Buddha dappled 

in gold leaf, 
envisaging a time 

outside time, 
when a single 

human life 
might waken. 

---

Peter Marcus | Crossing 6th Avenue in Winter Sunlight
Contents | Mudlark No. 55 (2014)