Kneeling, watching Ankur plow fertile field,
the boy Siddhartha observed wriggling worm
push free from clods, but—bare of earthen shield—
soon feel whistling thrush’s swooping beak, squirm
in vain, and disappear. This life-death scene
led him toward connections, meditation,
enlightenment. It would take years, it seems,
to escape Suddhodana. Decision
to desert Yasodhara, Rahula,
his duties as prince surely agonized
his sleep those weakened nights. He knew karma
would lead him back to their arms, I surmise,
his son turning disciple. Do your best,
he’d say. Love life. Moderate. Get honest.
Roger Armbrust
April 28, 2008
