The Choice

A cloud chose not to rain,

and yellow tropic sun

reaches through, to touch

a coconut palm, and reflect

from the edge of wings

of great white birds

traveling the river gorge.

The Mountain appears,

veiled in a shawl of mist,

north, beyond acacia

and locust trees.

Faint perfumes,

frangipani, ginger,

and an exotic feeling,

float on an east bound breeze.

The Buddha  

sits serenely,

ants and creeping vines

crawl over his folded hands.

Does he want to move?