~ Billy Collins ~\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok<\/em> \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word<\/em> \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n Even the season is wrong for him.<\/em> \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n But here we are, working our way down the driveway,<\/em> \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n This is so much better than a sermon in church,<\/em> \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n He has thrown himself into shoveling snow<\/em> \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n All morning long we work side by side,<\/em> \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n After this, he asks,<\/em> \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n Certainly, I reply, and I will heat some milk<\/em> \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n Aaah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyes<\/em> <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n enjoy the snow…<\/p>\n nite all, nite sam Sitting here staring out the sunny window at the light cover of snow.. as if she could read my mind…our friend Kathy just sent us this… Shoveling Snow With Buddha ~ Billy Collins ~\u00a0 \u00a0 In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok you would never see him doing such a thing, … Continue reading Wednesday afternoon – Shoveling Snow With Buddha<\/span>
\n you would never see him doing such a thing,<\/em>
\n tossing the dry snow over a mountain<\/em>
\n of his bare, round shoulder,<\/em>
\n his hair tied in a knot,<\/em>
\n a model of concentration.<\/em><\/p>\n
\n for what he does, or does not do.<\/em><\/p>\n
\n In all his manifestations, is it not warm or slightly humid?<\/em>
\n Is this not implied by his serene expression,<\/em>
\n that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe?<\/em><\/p>\n
\n one shovelful at a time.<\/em>
\n We toss the light powder into the clear air.<\/em>
\n We feel the cold mist on our faces.<\/em>
\n And with every heave we disappear<\/em>
\n and become lost to each other<\/em>
\n in these sudden clouds of our own making,<\/em>
\n these fountain-bursts of snow.<\/em><\/p>\n
\n I say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling.<\/em>
\n This is the true religion, the religion of snow,<\/em>
\n and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky,<\/em>
\n I say, but he is too busy to hear me.<\/em><\/p>\n
\n as if it were the purpose of existence,<\/em>
\n as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway<\/em>
\n you could back the car down easily<\/em>
\n and drive off into the vanities of the world<\/em>
\n with a broken heater fan and a song on the radio.<\/em><\/p>\n
\n me with my commentary<\/em>
\n and he inside his generous pocket of silence,<\/em>
\n until the hour is nearly noon<\/em>
\n and the snow is piled high all around us;<\/em>
\n then, I hear him speak.<\/em><\/p>\n
\n can we go inside and play cards?<\/em><\/p>\n
\n and bring cups of hot chocolate to the table<\/em>
\n while you shuffle the deck.<\/em>
\n and our boots stand dripping by the door.<\/em><\/p>\n
\n and leaning for a moment on his shovel<\/em>
\n before he drives the thin blade again<\/em>
\n deep into the glittering white snow.<\/em><\/p>\n![\"\"](\"http:\/\/johncohn.org\/base\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/Screen-Shot-2015-01-28-at-12.55.34-PM.png\" "\\"\\"")
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\n-me<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"