Coming home from my neighbor’s house
one snowy afternoon,
I recognized Shakyamuni Buddha,
wearing only a thin robe,
walking barefoot along the road.
 
Unlike the Zen masters,
I knew I couldn’t kill him
even if it was an illusion—
instead, I took off my coat
and draped it over his shoulders,
then took him home
for a cup of tea and bowl of rice.
 
After eating, we watched TV,
counting breaths during the commercials
though he seemed not to like
any of the shows, keeping his eyes
closed the whole time
until I switched to cartoons,
and he smiled for the first time.
 
As he got up to leave,
I asked him what it was like
to walk everywhere on the earth
but he didn’t answer—
never speaking a single word
even when I gave him
my favorite sweater, wool cap, and gloves
along with my wife’s warmest boots
(surprised at how small he was and thin).
 
Just as he was going out the door,
my wife came home—
of course, she recognized him right away
and noticed he was wearing her boots—
have you been meditating again? 
she asked me, shaking her head, 
you can take me shoe shopping
as soon as I put these groceries away—
but before the Buddha could cross the road
she ran after him and gave him her saffron 
colored scarf, wrapping it gently twice
around his bare neck: thanks, is all he said.