Mandala
If a tree falls to the north, there it lies, assuring natural law—
If a child of God is told to choose, it seems the choice is of the one—
The judging of wickedness is proscribed the child of God too simple—
Fire burns in the bones of the child trying not to choose—
A tree falls to the south, yet nothing has gone wrong—there it lies—
A child chooses to misbehave—consequences shape the inner springs—
Nevertheless from powers above wickedness is judged—
Choices easy and choices hated find their way to action—
Flip-flop quark-bundles feed the sun as they chance upon their turn—
In choosing, a child chooses to correct—reward is given—
Wickedness infuriates and righteousness delights the God of the child—
Choices straight as an arrow yet in trouble try to hide again in bones.
The steward with his empty box scratches silly notes and anecdotes
On the pads of empty pages kept in the inner pockets of his coats.
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