Red bell tower with a cotton lining; one dark-suited crow for a clapper.
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The night birds chant a song of virgules only. When I wake, the fields have throats lined with frogs’ mating songs.
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In the shallows, what makes the cheeks of the lotus bulge?
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I squinted up into the trees and saw the face of the Buddha pressed on each green globe dangling.
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Dear tufted seed lying in the maw of thunder, I raise my cup to be blessed.
[LAG-other-response date=”07 21 2014″ url=”https://www.vianegativa.us/2014/07/farmer/” title=”Via Negativa: Farmer”]