She was a trampled on young woman,
Life had already walked hard upon her.
That anxious brow
Told of how
Everything was a struggle.
Yet going out the door,
No matter how late she might already be,
She never missed making three quick bows
To a plastic Amitabha Buddha on her little shrine.
Her recitations of the Buddha-name
Slowly polished
The tiny gems and crystals
She had laid out in a sliver of a moon arc.
“Amitabha is all I really have,”
She said once
During a back porch break
From the crowded revelries which were going on inside.
“And you know, I think that is enough.”
I agreed, so we promised to meet up with each other
In the Pure Land
And she is over there now.
The first thing she said she was going to do
Was to wade into one of the pools lined with
Gold dust sand,
Just so she could feel gold squishing between her toes.
Me?
I just want to
Fly, fly, fly, like I have in a dream.
It will be so good to catch up with her
And she can show me around the Pure Land
With her toes all sparkling gold.
Now this is no eulogy,
Just a voicing of rejoicing
That a person, tumbling through life,
Can call the Buddha-name
And find equilibrium
In Amitabha Buddha’s love.
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