Buddha

Round prints are left on its glossy surface,

its pieces round and smooth were once held

in the palm of her hand,

daughter and mother, overseer of small things,

it sits deliberately on the table

with its fists resting gentle on its knees,

a joyful open mouthed grin spread across its quartz face

and exaggerated earlobes that appear like as pliable pears,

but are soft as marble.

His small bald head is as shiny as the rest of him,

wise bushy brows and a lengthy robe wrapped around,

his feet press sturdily into the small box of sand

where he sat a dynasty ago,

a millennia to a small child

whose hands pressed Buddha’s heavy stone body

into her small open-palmed hands,

he signifies change to her,

with small textures of wear chipped away,

and while she grows, Buddha shrinks if only a

small bit,

where he sat,

next to hot clay filled with

Gen Matcha or wooden sticks,

beneath shelves of papyrus or salves of beauty cream

that gives his face its shine,

he has been passed down from the hands

of a strange general, his arms brisk and

his voice loud,

but not to Buddha who sat with him,

in his same posture,

feet pressed

and sturdy,

into the ground.