Saturday, January 31, 2015



There are pockets of clarity
in the cold gray fog;

transparent patches in the river ice.
Like a movie, nothing really but light

but, also, a stage play,
fictional characters and plot,

local and short-lived but
underneath the costumes

real complexities, other existences
beyond the time-anchored

personalities and egos,
the disparate acts and dialogue.

What I mean is, sometimes,
you spy the thespians

under their sweat and makeup;
discern the true theme,

the beauty of which leaves you
speechless with wonder.

O child of God, Meher was silent, living
His every holy moment in absolute amazement.

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