An Old Apple

Under the Bodhi Tree, I sat,
Decompartmentalizing in full bliss;
Legs crossed, arms atop that-
Searching, seeking, in mindfulness.

The wind shifted spryly
Beginning dreams avalanche-
Struck from up highly,
A fig split from branch.

Recycling air from within,
Of black and white light-
With a soul full of Zen,
Spitting seeds from each bite:

Down cheeks juice drips
Streaking fresh fruit’s flesh,
Engraining an impermanent image
No older than Gilgamesh.

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