Buddha’s Bones
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

The old man quietly
puts on his clothes
as the morning loosens
from the night.

He goes outside,
sits on the porch,
eats some warm rice,
sips some warm tea,
then sets his bowl aside
for the deer to finish.

He stands, takes the shawl
and staff that wait by the door,
and goes in search
of the Buddha’s bones.

He walks as the fog
slowly lifts, he walks
as far as the pond
where a heron stands
on one leg, snow falling
on its hunched shoulders.

He watches a long time.
He watches until a white deer
walks passed him, snapping
a twig, jolting him awake.
He shakes his head, he watches
his breath carry his whispered
words to the heron, to the deer,
and then is on his way.

He walks until his feet
are just the right amount of cold,
he walks until the moon
emerges from its cave
in the clouds, he walks until
he is sure the deer ate the rest
of the rice.

And when he arrives back home
he turns and stands for a long,
still moment, snow falling
on his shoulders and the branches,
the rocks, and the logs. He smiles.
Buddha’s bones are everywhere.