Cabbage leaves
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.
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