The birds in the trees
don’t ask who delivers
each day’s daily bread
Why then
in my molted state
should I?
Where would you put me
If I ceased to be this day
Nowhere I call home
Dig not the deep pit
Nor fill dead veins with oil
Singe me clean and quick
On wings of rank smoke
I shall leave as I have lived
Quiet and alone
* * *
David Rheins
Buddha 2009, originally uploaded by DRheins.