Mara was the part of Syakyamuni
that wanted to make love to his wife,
eat grapes on the terrace,
and be revered as a king.

You have that too, you know.
It's a human thing,
like wanting to sleep all day
in the warmth of the sun
and not get burned.

It's the gut thought,
displayed by frenzied children
who can't stay awake
but won't go to bed.

It's the teenager
obsessed with the blonde down the street,
believing his need
is a physical pain,

or the anxious homemaker
whose floors don't shine
quite good enough.

It's the salaryman,
drinking every night
just to blunt the mindlessness
of every day life,

and in the end
the retiree,
bitter on his sun porch,
whose children never call,
and none of this
was supposed to be
the way it all turned out,
alone and forgotten.

Even the rich
and beautiful
drink from the well,
hinged and nailed
on the gate of good fortune,

And though it's easy
to catch a glimpse
of the moon on the dew
when sprawled flat
on your face,

the ache of suffering,
the longing for heaven,
the hope for the unlocked lock,
and the clawing hungry
desperation
to which we speak
is not silenced
with gold
nor bright lights.

Walking the path,
these distractions can fade
as the self that craves
recedes into fond memory,

but only by the degree
to which the eyes and heart
open sage green eyes
to the whirlwind
of this universe
as it is

the one
old Syakyamuni
held
in the mudra
of his hands.

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