The Question

The trees were draped in ecstatic fire,
The air dense with the heartbeats of drums:
They were married in the middle of spring.

“Complete, finally,” her mother had said.
Dream fulfilled; destiny awaiting:
Never before had she been whole.

It was all but “happily ever after…”

But he left. Disappeared.
On the night her son was born
And she slept,
Not a word, not a clue.
Even the walls could not whisper his secret.
The autumn had come.

When weeks poured themselves into months,
They told her she was still young;
Perhaps she could be “whole” again.
She refused.
The sea was never left poorer
For a few tears,
Nor bereft of purpose.
The sea was never incomplete.

Seven springs later, he returned.
Bringing the blossoms and winds and drum-beats
A memory stirring a storm in her sea.
He came to stand before her, looking
Blankly
As if her waves did not crash
Against the cliffs of her patience.
The legend says she held on to her storms,
And asked of him:

“I hear
They call you ‘Buddha’ now?”

Whad'ya think?