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“The Bodhisattva rests in glacial air, under
a dust of snow, leaves fallen into one arm.
This fairyland Buddha sits in an exquisite
etched chair, a powdery image of beauty.
Winter brings blinding thoughts of flaky
falling dreams, slushy icy hard footprints,
with crunchy mantras of wind. Forever
surrounded by obscuring of days, whiteout
of the mundane, penetrating freeze, and
blizzard of emptiness. Crystalline diamond
Vajra surrounded by endings. Slow drifting
meditations that meander to the ground.
White snow like bones, cold as death, frozen
in compassion. Drifting to enlightenment
with vows to return until all are in blessed
fields. Icy mantra Om Mani Padme Hum
to mountain emptiness, echoing forever
in alpine Buddhafields. Not this, nor that�
but always something else. These days, we
mostly see blessed falling flakes of snow.”
― Ruth Ann Oskolkoff, The Bones of the Poor