The ferns are on their way out now; yellow, brown, a few green holdouts.
This ancient plant: somewhere in its DNA, dinosaurs roam.
Now I see these ferns lushly green in summertime; tall, too, waist-high on me.
That which came before—it isn’t gone.
Bird song and squeaky saliva sounds mingle with imaginary conversations about work.
Which is most welcome in Buddha’s house? Which is the guest unwanted?
Not for me to say.
Our substance is the same.