A Place of Refuge

In 2023, the Metropolitan Museum of Art assembled a groundbreaking exhibition of more than 125 objects exploring Buddhist art in India from 200 BCE to 400 CE.  Many of those objects—which included statues, stupas, and ritual vessels—were newly discovered, adding depth to our knowledge of early Buddhism. But if the museum’s patrons came to “Tree & Serpent” expecting to find iconic representations of Shakyamuni seated in meditation, they were surely disappointed.

Early Buddhist artists were reluctant to depict Shakyamuni in human form. For hundreds of years after his passing into nirvana, the Buddha was represented aniconically—with a set of footprints or an empty throne, or through images of flora and fauna from the natural world. The Best of Season haiku for Summer 2025 belongs to that older tradition.

The poem reads as a single sentence—an unassuming statement that becomes profound only when we consider the implications of its opening words. Is the poet chronicling the history of a particular bodhi tree? Or is she recalling the very tree at Bodhgaya beneath which Shakyamuni attained enlightenment more than a hundred generations ago?

Shade trees figured prominently in the lives of premodern people. Large, leafy trees with wide-set branches were used for a variety of purposes: as open-air meeting spaces, as cooling stations for livestock, and as places to nap or chat during the hottest hours of the day. In Asia such trees have long been associated with forest-dwelling monks and yogis. The first Buddhist monasteries were leafy groves, not dedicated structures with a roof and walls.

As the poet contemplates the tree, she considers how long it took to reach maturity. A century or two perhaps, which is longer than a human lifespan, but still not very long in the greater scheme of things. In this way she arrives at that simple but strangely evocative phrase: after a long while.

Paired with the image of a bodhi tree, those five syllables become infinitely expandable. The words could indicate anything from a few decades to the many kalpas of practice and austerity it takes to become a buddha. The poem is a reminder that spiritual growth happens slowly, and with great patience, over an extended period of time. But in that case, why focus on the shade and not the tree itself?

The poem is an invitation to marvel at this most ancient of all Buddhist symbols—but not by viewing it from a distance. We are invited to take a seat beneath its branches. It is cooler there, and somewhat dimmer. A place from which to contemplate the world without being deceived by the world. A liminal space where one might pass an hour . . . or many lifetimes. A place of refuge and solace that is more than the product of a single tree, or the work of a single generation of Buddhists. A shade that grows deeper and wider with the passing of every year.

This is a different kind of symbol—timeless and eternal. If the tree represents the Buddha, the shade is Buddhism itself.

♦

The Tricycle Haiku Challenge asks readers to submit original works inspired by a season word. Moderator Clark Strand selects the top poems to be published in Tricycle with his commentary. 

To see past winners and submit your haiku, visit tricycle.org/haiku.