Under a cabbage leaf, Father said
and the son believed him.
He loves me too much,
the child reasoned, to tell a lie –
rousing the wonder of a rimy, autumn garden,
naked infant curled among the stalks and stems.
Thumbing now through God Speaks
and other unspoken words You left behind,
I wonder how many cabbage leaves
are enfolded among the bright pages.
Not that it matters.
It was never about hard facts with You ...
but the gentle whisperings and gestures
of a son’s trust in his father, a father’s love for his son.
Inscrutable tales that quench,
yet prod and fire the groping soul
towards the coming of age,
when mind and tongue shall be stilled –
when Truth shall thoroughly own the man
and the child shall be no more.
O child of God, trust in the love of Meher
where all contradictions are reconciled.