Mercy flourishing

Mercy Flourishing                                                                                 
 
The reservoir was empty when You arrived,
atop a desolate (but not God-forsaken) landscape.
 
You gave it the name Mercy Flourishing.
Decades later, the hot winds were still awhirl,
 
dust coating the paths, porches, withered fields,
green banyans and neems, as I mounted the small hill
 
to reach Your Tomb and enter Your Immaculacy. 
Sometime or another, I thought to bury myself 
 
somewhere deep in that merciful ground
as best I could, but half-covered and mournful,
 
I couldn’t finish the job. 
And now I can never come clean.
 
Returned to the world, everywhere I go
I’m still caked in the grave dust of Meherabad.
 
O child of God, it’s not a do-it-yourself task.
Reach a humility that allows His grace to flow.