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Moksha

The man sat on a rock under the persimmon tree.
The ripe, pungent, orange fruit had dropped on the ground by his feet,
and the season was neither end of summer, nor autumn.
In that illusionary river called “time”
it had been another tree, and another land.
At that time, “enlightenment” had been sought, and was useful,
but , as with all illusion, that usefulness was at an end.
The eightfold path grew the weeds of judgment and ethics.
The four noble truths were politically incorrect, as were the five precepts.
Only the three jewels remained.
The Bodhisattva, for that was what he was, knew the moment,
and savored it, like the fine wine it was.
The boat that was his life was about to reach the western shore.
He laughed as he remember this joke:
“A monk was driving in India when suddenly a dog crosses the road. The car hit and killed the dog. The monk looked around and seeing a temple, went to knock on the door. A monk opened the door. The first monk sai😛 ‘I’m terribly sorry, but my karma ran over your dogma.’”