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.