My Freedom Lawn
Beach Wind Meditation
Grandmother March blows sand spindrifts
in silky ribbons across darker,
heavier sand. Orange and gray shell
detritus dots the empty beach.
Her gustiness thrusts our hoods
against our heads as we walk with
the wind today. Looking like monks
distracted by so much beauty,
we don’t pay attention to magnetic
fields like loggerhead turtles. We aren’t
good at path integration like
pelicans, nor can we find our way
home from twenty-thousand body
lengths away like sand fiddlers:
we’ve lost our ability to
navigate the beach of samsara.
When I have a belly full of my own
rough weather, my mind blown apart like clouds
in a nor’easter, I admire the way
gulls sit in darkening sea swales.
Grandmother March gives me such
a bad case of “logorrhea” that
the churning tide of words makes
my weathered head sick.
Then I see the meditation god
Manjusri coming up the beach,
riding a blue lion, his sword
shining in the cold, afternoon sun.