When he can easily And properly name The trees

That one with purplish Flowers is a Japanese Magnolia and this one With white blossoms That shine like stars Against sunlight if he Stands underneath is Obviously a star magnolia

Blooming in this too early North American spring,

He thinks this is the end Of exile, this is arriving Home.

Two young boys return After playing (explorers? Cops and robbers?) in

The wood lot and brambles Of the backyard, bare feet Covered with red clay

And laughter streaming Off their faces like rain That is falling into this

Evening’s sunlight. Their clothes hug Their young bodies,

Which are free, mostly, Of this tormenting Desire and striving,

Which has taken Root in mine. Yet the wheel of

Suffering has been Set in motion even In their case, even as

They whoop in delight When they score A direct hit with

A frayed tennis ball At the little bronze Buddha Put under that sturdy

Oak by the Zen meditator Next door. How much Metta do we all need

Here, O Enlightened One, You who have broken The rafters and the ridge

Pole of trishna, the house Builder, and have taught Men to bounce suffering

Off themselves, like this Muddy tennis ball!