Snow draping the skylight creates
A singular ambient countenance.
Transition from light or dark room is
Neither repression or progression,
Rather a dawdling suspension,
A sudden pause at the
Top of a school yard swing.
Stick a needle in my thumb and it
Would seem that pain is not pain.
That the connection of sensation
To head has been reassigned.
As if pain is colour of the painting on
The wall that is seen across the room.
A painting I could fold to a paper plane
And flit across the room.
Or a painting to adorn with felt
and pencil crayon, like purple Harold.
Is this how Buddha felt, always?