attendant to blossom, we come
wedded to spring rain
and white petals;
among the orchard
the green clover
and thick, green grass.
The finger that sows the seed is the root our bodies,
taut trunks bear down in earth as seed and fruit
then reach upwards again as branches as blossoms unfold;
Open up thy hands to receive the gift of this, our Sun and Father.
Slipping into the white blossom the long tongue of the bee reaches to the very roots
touches the seed of rainwater, suckles the petaled sun
and gathers nectar on its honeyed tongue to feed.
itself, its hive and its young.
Yet the gift is wish less;
it is without purpose.
The honey bee pollinates what it does not mean to plant:
Apple seeds, bloom in trees, in raindrops, And yes sometimes bees.
Just so do we by our constant care and effort, nurture ourselves
The finger that sows the seed is the root and impregnate joys
in others' nest unknowing.
At our table As our hands lift food from our plates
they fill wooden crates full of apples.
We are the harvest hands who this morning rise to pick
the fruit of loving kindness and giving in living generosity,
singing at once the self
same harvest song;
In feeding ourselves we feed others
In feeding others we feed ourselves.
Chan Phap Tue (inspired by the plum blossom festival, spring 2000)