The path offers no choice;
can’t be altered nor left behind –
more ourselves than our pulsing hearts,
the spines down our backs
or the mind’s endless torrents
of justifications and desires.
We can’t ease warily down it
nor chart our way around it;
can’t rest mid-journey.
No wrong turns or blind alleys,
we’re pushed along pell-mell,
compelled and constrained,
never a wasted moment
the whole unimaginably protracted stretch.
No straying from our destinies, pilgrims,
or ourselves, the divine Companion,
the ever-presence of our Maker
in the only game there is.
O child of God, you cite the particulars
yet everything is One.
No comments:
Post a Comment