A wintry Atlantic far as the eye can see
backed up against the Meher Center.
Rough tide rolling in; soon to be withdrawn
by some ancient schedule, natural as breath.
High tide deposits, ebb tide removes,
each drop illusory, transitory, necessary.
Disturbed neither by its bounty nor dearth
as it takes and gives not what I desire
but what I require. Such
is my faith.
Ever
functioning in its to-and-fro mystery,
there’s no lost
book, its secrets to reveal.
Read instead
its ragged roar and song.
Allow it to
envelop, permeate, drench,
ready you for
when the grace comes
to repair,
restore, return your soul
to its depths
unfathomable.
O child of God, your Father is the Ocean.
Every shore on which you stand is foreign.
No comments:
Post a Comment