Here on this isolated spit
Of land, I calmly sit. I dream the Buddha’s
Hand has given green
Papaya-scented worlds of fruit
For us to eat.
Despite my suit of wool I stand
And look out on polluted land. A tiny smile
Has crossed my face. A mile far out
To sea I taste the purer air that we
Might breathe, if only we could squeeze the fruit
That’s offered by the Buddha’s
Hand, if only we would take a stand.
If we could pass some laws with teeth
We might renew the ozone wreath and
Wrap the Earth in dreams we’ve seen
Of azure blue and verdant green.
Prompt: This is a “golden shovel”. Each line ends with a word from the following poem:
Watermelons
Green Buddhas
On the fruit stand.
We eat the smile
And spit out the teeth.
-Charles Simic
