For Ruth
There’s a secret only poets know
a special lens
through which we see the world
a way of listening to the stories of things and people
and places
which to some may seem silent
but which whisper to us
when no one else is looking.
And in those hushed voices
we hear our own hearts
as the soft voice of
God
in human form
before us.
I remember the long walk
up from the Ashram
winding up the hill
through the cold Avalon morning,
frozen mud underfoot
and lakes and lakes
reflecting the perfect blue
barely visible through the mist.
When you’re called to cross that wide sea
When finally, after you’ve set aside
any hope of completion,
how will you walk
your final walk
down the pier to that great ship?
All around the house
We will be reminded
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