sala

Parking lot semi-full as we pull in off the dirt road,
Red and gold rooftop glistens in the noonday sun,
Eagles and snakes atop the converted barn,
Now the main temple, represents heaven and earth,
Festival day at the Dhammasala, marking the monsoon season,
Half a world away, Buddhism amidst the cornfields.
Hustle and bustle over at the red pole barn,
As Thai cooks set up shop, temple boys run back and forth,
American boys born and bred, now immersed in Eastern orthodoxy,
Smiles on everyone’s face, Asian or otherwise,
The Dhamma does not discriminate, doesn’t care about race,
I walk past the monk’s residence to enjoy the view.
A gazebo off in the distance, trails disappear into trees,
A forest monastery in the heart of Michigan,
Fawn suckles from mom over in the high grass,
Meditation huts sit hidden back in the woods,
Up on high ground away from the stream,
Surrounded by silence and the shadows from the pines.
The stillness seeps into the subconscious,
Quieting thoughts and fears momentarily . . .