Hang, Like Fruit

From my spirit a body and mind
Hang, like fruit.

Born by season and growing
I watch in witness
The wind weathers
Time gnarls
Stone roughens.

My esteem flows in fancy to the
Mulberry, blueberry, peach
There are myriad others as
Gooseberry, plum, apple.

This contraption an instrument of spirit
To taste material lands
Hear the news
See in blindness and clarity
Feeling in frozen January sensation
And burning cornbread scent.

The artist through art
The carpenter through craft
The dancer through dance
The spirit through being.

Until it is time
Fruit falls free
Subsumed by birds
What universe is next
That the spirit will bud a fruit?

Painting Suspension

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?