Some rough plaques of Buddha
shelved as roughly too,
but the simple image attracted.
Made somewhere by one unknown
the slabs were heavy
And one after the other I looked for
one not chipped by lack of mindfulness.
One I found with one small chip
That somehow fitted in,
and not upon the Buddha serene.
We went together to the longish queue
for too few staffing, now too stressed.
A couple before me impatiently
put their goods down and walked out
Showing their displeasure..
Finally the Buddha and I arrived.
But Buddha was priceless and holding him
Up for all to see, she sought staff to get his price.
“Can you get the price on this thing?”
It was not meant in harm but under stress.
We waited, and waited, others had shifted
To emptying lines, and we waited some more.
She was restless, sighing, as if waiting for me to
No way, I knew now
that Buddha was meant for me, and me for him.
I practiced my patience. That’s at least
one thing I have learnt. And best not to blow it,
Buddha and all, I thought anyway.
Meanings, you know, are in everything.
You make them, you find them,
You live them.
The minutes went by and finally
The price arrived. We were both relieved
and she lightened up, The price was less
than what I had thought,
and she was pleased for both of us.
Finishing with smiles, queues all gone,
it all worked out well for her and me,
and Buddha too, I think;
priceless, priced, and now thus gone.