Lama Jigme Gyatso
Whining about the Rain
A storm has come
to my corner
of Southern California
and from within
our deliciously heated apartment
I gaze out our double-paned window
and see the palm tree’s fronds
dancing in the wind…
My inner child is pouting;
mourning the prospect
of not being able to sit outside
for four hours of daily meditation.
For little Lord Fauntleroy, over here,
is made of sugar
and will most assuredly melt
if he sits his tushy down
in a quarter inch
I image I am Obi-Wan Kenobi
visiting the water world of Kamino
even though the storm should pass
in eight days.
My tantric partner endured decades
in the pacific northwest
where sunny days are the exception,
not the norm.
Oh how I shall miss visiting
with my neighbor dogs
while they’re out walking
their pet humans.
And how I will pine for the fresh air
against my face,
and within my lungs.
I shall have to content myself
with meditating upon the floor
of the front room,
the door open,
the screen closed,
and the space heater
cooking my lower back.
I interrupt my one-man-pity-party
and remind myself
of the cave-dwelling Tibetan yogis
snowed-in for months at a time,
clearly an inspiration for ice planet Hoth,
and I blush at my silly petulance.
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