The Sun, the Moon, the Truth, the Wars

There’s a war reporter in my ear. There’s rain in my potatoes. There’s tomatoes turning to running in my skillet. There’s a life’s love fitfully sleeping away the Tuesday... in the next room. There’s coffee on my tongue. And delighting my brain. There’s dishes in the drying stage... in the morning light. There’s a thought of Siddhartha, who came to become the one who had no more becoming before him, only after stepping outside of the walls, outside of the rules, outside of expectations. There a thought of Siddhartha Gautama, who came to see the broken, the bleeding, the aging, the hungry. There’s a war reporter in my ear, insisting on putting before us what we so easily, what we so regularly, what we so willfully put out of sight, out of earshot, out of the grand and limited sweep of our attention. Isn’t this reporter trying to awaken us all? Isn’t this reporter trying to Awaken another? Any other? You? Me?