A Golden Shovel after William Blake

On his death bed my uncle managed to
speak and help a hundred neighbours to see
a thousand golden buddhas in a
mustard seed. A miraculous World
shimmered and dazzled in
an inconceivable liberation. It wasn't a
mere miracle: it had more than a Grain
of truth in it. A generous demonstration of
the Way and a line drawn in the Sand.

My grandma emptied her house and
stored all her furniture in a
tree, rent-free. A heavy tree touching Heaven.
She told me our minds too were in
a state of ultimate emptiness but a
long arduous struggle with Wild
beasts is the price if we wish to Flower.

I remember my grandpa would Hold
me and I'd climb towards Infinity
while listening to tales of giants and goddesses in
rivers, lakes and mountains. Miraculously the
palaces, princes, ogres and luxurious palm 
trees appeared on grandpa's head. I'd see scents of
magnolia, sandalwood and jasmine; he'd say 'Your
buddha-realm is in your own hand.'

I knew my aunt was an ordinary buddha and
that she cultivated lotus flowers in Eternity.
When she chanted, flagrant flowers fell in
my bedroom. Often she appeared as an
elephant to show me a path each hour.