O Lord, this ramshackle structure
into which I’ve settled –
it’s not plumb, level or square.
Rain drips from the rafters;
thunder rattles the windows; cold winds
force their way through every crack.
I work feverishly to patch and repair,
rushing here and there – and wind up
exhausted among the catastrophes.
But, it’s my home – my shelter. I built it.
I own it, every board, shingle, stud and beam.
I nailed it together; poured the foundation
that is sinking now into the mire.
From these clouded windows, I look out
upon this inhospitable world.
Through these walls, I hear the cries
and laughter of my faceless neighbors.
O Meher, blessed was that spring morning
I first heard Your flute playing in the street!
With Your lovely melodies now, You try to coax me out.
Too frightened to move, I watch You, enraptured –
wondering what unimaginable grace brought You
to my window.
O child of God, abandon that tumbledown shack
and flee to the true shelter of the Flute-player’s arms.
(from The Garden of Surrender, 2004)
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