Fresh-cut Grass

I climbed a mountain without a line
To rest in the hand of the Buddha
And grieve with him;
To bemoan the multitudes
Curving their bodies in obeisance,
Trailing smoke from sticks-
Watery-eyed wanderers,
Wonderers in anguish,
Who missed the mark,
Who miss the answers
That litter their path,
Printed in manuscript that reads
Like the simplest verse,
But crumbles under their feet
As they walk on
With sun-burned faces, in denial
Of the plainness of it, bound
To the notion that truth is elusive,
That it is for the collared and the robed,
The emaciated, squatting on mountaintops;
While revelation drifts
Like snow banks.
Like fallen leaves,
It tickles their ankles;
Stains their cuffs
Like fresh-cut grass.