Grounded

The stories all forget that the Buddha

was just a man sitting beneath a tree

in the middle of the night, weathering

the storm of his thoughts and fears, 

each one demanding: Who do you think 

you are? His simple answer: to reach 

down and touch the earth, feel the wet 

hair of the grasses, the smooth skin

of sandy soil beneath his hand. And so 

I say to myself: Ground yourself here. 

Pick up a single dead oak leaf, if that’s 

all you can do, and turn it this way 

and that, so the leathery surface gleams 

in thin winter light, so that the earth,

which you are, can welcome you back.

—James Crews