My husband was dying. But we didn’t know it–not yet.
Daily I drove to the hospital. Walking the parking lot
I focused on breathing until I turned into five streams:
form and feelings, perceptions, volition and consciousness.
The Buddha called them skandas.
I knew them as streams pouring from me,
shifting, subtle, nothing to sort one from another.
By the time I entered his room, I forgot who I was.
Hi, my name’s Skanda.
On the bed he lay, apparati in abundance,
five streams rushing toward me,
stream meeting stream.
No birth, no death, Buddha said.
Only streams.
What else is there to say?
© February 8, 2014 | Carolyn White
