Buddha's Hands

LA Farmers Markert 2004

Today, let me be Buddha’s hands­
yellow as the lily, unmanicured and kind
Let me dispose of my pettiness
and reach those who need love most
Let me feel perfectly happy . . . here . . .
without looking down or looking up
to anyone, to anything, let me, be me
Let me be Buddha’s gnarled, gentle hands

On this day, allow my ego to be a crippled boat
that cannot float without heaving the notion of perfection
sad memories, sworn oaths, all bad ballast overboard
Allow my oar to be quiet, letting the river take me
My sail will be forgiveness, full of wind and hope
Let Buddha’s hands reel in the ropes that hold the weight
and tie the lines around a cleat-shaped heart
that is love’s lap, the unfaltering home of love itself

All my life, my hands have been crude fists
Pounding doors, windows, my clamor so loud
“Let me in, let me in,” I seemed to say, “Let me
be first, be best, be the only one,” riled and rampart
Today, and from this day forward, I am Buddha’s hands
content to be myself, not worried who has more
Let me be the hands of Buddha, who holds nothing
and shares everything, hands turned under in a saffron fold

© 2010 Viola Weinberg