There’s no Bodhi Tree in Bartow

A tree waits by the tennis courts
for me to bring the bamboo mat,
sit heavily beneath its oaken-ness,
holding my breath
for the prayed for moment.

How long I wonder.
How many days observing
the wind riffle through the grass seed heads;
watching the slow rise of the heron
from the murky lake - watching
its leisured flight across the evening-stained sky.

How long before the people
who bring their discards to the recycle bins
realize I have been there for several weeks -
unmoving and silent;
attended by a few disciples
who bring me fruit and water.

How long before the local police
ask me to move on,
wait for my explanation,
then Baker Act me
when I stare past them into the
patch of banana trees waving at fishermen
on the other bank -
who wave right back.


© 2002 Melissa Songer