Before Samadhi

I returned to a rock of no particular importance
for twelve years, and it was only during the last spring

that the wind tried to shake me down.
I knew I would be a son again,

only this time in a fatherless world
freed from tides, hoes, and rice,

where the panda sleeps through summer,
and the katydid welcomes the first flecks of snow.

Nightly I dreamt of the mothers who would save me
by letting me die, by letting me become all of the lives

that lie ahead: the beggar sitting on a diving board
over an emptied pool behind some dying downtown’s hotel,

the white sleeves of a moon plant
slowly rising and dilating.