All day she tends the garden behind
the house. Every morning she lines up
clear jars on the kitchen counter,
like rows of pacifist soldiers. In the
evening they are filled with fresh
yogurt. Some evenings we sit by the
fire and she reads Haiku poetry aloud.
Nothing expository there, she says,
then winks and laughs like a church bell.
One night as I was passing by the
drive-in movie theater, I saw her
up on the screen, playing a spy
disguised as a goat. Last night she
sat in the meadow, in the moon light,
wearing the robes of a Buddhist monk.
In the morning I asked if she was
rehearsing for another movie role.
Oh no, sir, she replied, I can assure
you I am entirely the real thing.
Then she crowed, exactly like
a rooster at morning’s first light.
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Author:
Vipassana (
Offline) - Published: February 10th, 2026 02:04
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 8
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments1
There is something charming and magnetic about the eccentricity in this poem. It holds a jewel of greater importance in its message. In being who one is there is purpose and meaning. All will not understand or even like you but that itself is of little meaning. Meaning takes all forms, different at different times. Lovely and a fave
thanks much. yes, Meaning takes all forms, different at different times.
You are most welcome
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