Gazing at the moonrise

Gazing at the moonrise                                                                                    
 
I should be sitting cross-legged by now,
like a high old monk, not a thought in the world
 
nor a question in mind, gazing at the moonrise
above the shadowed vale; blending in mutely
 
with God’s majesty and beauty.
Truly, what better way to spend my time?
 
Preferable to my polished routine down here,
my old song and dance, playing to the crowd;
 
my sweat and scuffle, trying to leave my mark upon the world –
like the spray-painted graffiti on those mountain stones.
 
But my legs won’t fold up like that anymore
or carry me up a mountainside, so I sit
 
in my darkened house to mingle if not quite merge
with the Mystery in a shuteye, heart to heart communion
 
upon the jagged edge of the mountain,
above the endless vales within;
 
my ancient Self rising with that distant moon,
receiving and reflecting His holy light.
 
O child of God, how peaceful is the pilgrim
whose Companion has taken him by the hand.