Purple Bodhi tree leaves - Poems by Sarah Escue

After Meditating in the Forest

Doi Suthep-Pui National Park

 

A wind filters through me,

my lungs swell, unswell—.

 

Buried beneath my body,

another earth un-

spools—silk from a spindle.

 

Still, the bird song rises—

not like river water

rises in a flood, nor steam

from a teacup; but like a prayer.

 

Pines yellow,

huddle to warm

themselves in the rain.

 

The moon is an organ, a spider—

sclerotic,

dang-

ling

from its own web.

 

Who, with me, will walk

this path untrod?

 

The Sacred Fig Tree

A Tanka

Velvet bulbs purple,
but what of the Bodhi’s roots
beneath our Buddha’s
feet, leaves unfurling like palms,
catching rain from the Crane’s mouth?

 

A Haiku

The sandhill crane stalks
schools of floundering silver,
stabs at sterling fish.

 

I Bloom Like the Ginger Root

Morning, old friend, has fallen into the trees,
collects in the forest’s corner like dust.

Rooting the red earth, ginger blooms,
and so do I—petals yellow,

unfurling for the sun-sprawled sky.
There’s a boiling beneath my thread-thin roots—

the earth’s call to be unburied, rediscovered.
The wind whispers to each of my leaves

in a language I don’t recognize.
I dig my feet deeper into the dirt,

stretch out my greening stems
in search for the words.

Sarah Escue is a creative writing student at the University of South Florida and works as the Assistant Editor at The Adirondack Review. She is also an editorial intern with Saw Palm: Florida Literature and Art. Her work has been published in Milk Journal.

image: Special Red Color Bodhi via Shutterstock

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