Red Berry

Red Berry

And he will protect those who love

the woods and rivers, Gods and animals,
hobos and madmen, prisoners and sick

people, musicians, playful women and hopeful

children…                    

                                    Gary Snyder

                                    from the Smokey the Bear Sutra

                                   

Today, the bear is making

quiet, she is nose low

and hoping that the lonely old

late in growing berries will come

up from under the cold

bog.  The world accepts her

mostly because they don’t

know her from any place

other than their own

arrogance.  They’ll hold

moldy bread between

their fingers – and rigid,

stick it out and into the lip

of the bear’s memory, trying

to change her mind.  They

think they’re being believed,

they think they’re being

trusted.  Sons and daughters

are given permission to touch

the sacred hara of the bear,

two inches below the chewed life

line, where it is believed

all chi resides.  They are burned

but don’t know it until later,

much, much later, when they,

reaching for their own cheek,

or their own feet, see

the scorch on each finger

print, and, leaning into the mirror,

in the dead center of their eye.