Leaves from the Tree of Life;
brown and withered,
dried with growing old,
dislodged by the touch of Time;
or green,
with veins still swelling
with rising sap,
torn free by an untimely wind.

What are they,
these dancing treasures?

The more the tree creates,
pushing and budding
out of reaching, branching fingers,
the more they spiral down
and spin and congregate
like giant midges
in every gust and eddy.

What are they,
these dancing treasures
separating
from the Tree of Life?

Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts.
Each contains in its form
the whole tree.
Each contains in its form
nothing
the denuded tree
cannot do without.

Spiralling, spinning,
congregating,
they clog drains
and streams
and waterways;
make paths treacherous.

Good for nothing
but rotting down
and feeding
the insatiable hunger,
the thousand breathing mouths
of the sangsāra!

.