Tuesday, March 15, 2016

A peacock feather

A peacock feather      

At mosques in India they brushed me down
with a peacock feather before I entered

on bare feet, an invitation to leave
my dust behind, clean of accumulated sanskaras.

To enter the shrine of the holy moment,
my sandals must also be left at the door,

my dust-laden small self brushed clean
lest the false narrative, the illusory context

with which I consistently, erroneously frame
the holy moment, track the immaculate floor,

leave the clumsy evidence of my intrusion –
dust and shadow upon the bright mirror,

a metaphor and more, outside that portal
leading to the infinitely structured,

wind-partitioned, stone floor, starry ceiling
shrine of the holy eternal moment.

O child of God, quietly now connections are made;
facts gathered over a lifetime falling neatly into place.

(photo by gloria_kasket @ pixabay)

No comments:

Post a Comment