little buddha

a fretful mind into the night,
worrisome considering
her human alarm doesn't do
snooze.

from the open blinds, west,
lightening behind the clouds,
the storm that might give her hell
or fizzle out before it arrives.

happiness never feels
particularly authentic,
but her cynic's stance crumbles
in the company of
story-time, play-dates, and the boy,
her zen master of the eternal present.

a dozen times a day, he grabs
a book, pats the chair, beckoning,

as if to say, whatever important
grown-up task--paying a bill,
chatting to a friend, or writing a poem--
it's nothing, let's play.

her past--he doesn't care,
her anger--he softens,
her mistake--he forgets,
her love--he breathes.

a momma's hug slays bedtime monsters, soothes
hurt feelings, heals backyard ouchies, and dries
crocodile tears,

so tonight, let the storms come,
she'll meditate upon insomnia,
seeking right mind to accept
the lesson he teaches everyday--

a simple wonder called now