The Moss And The Rain

January 29, 2015


The moss and the rain, who approved who?
The cold and the snow, who approved who?
The love and the rings, who approved who?
The dove and its eggs, who approved who?

Porcelain miniatures set in a circle, deep in a
pathless forest,
The wandering monk, the sleepless sea,
The reward and the prices,
The rainbow and the plea,

Words stumble and fall at the feet of Love,
Tripping over its own gifts, too many to hold,
Overflowing, multiplying as the gift-giver gets
closer, bolder, broader and more beautiful,

A walrus is set at a summit surrounded by
invisible ocean waves,
A buffalo is grazing in Rumi’s front yard,
Buddha is playing chess with Medusa wearing
sunglasses,

Stalemate never occurs here,
When the loser is about to loose, the winner
trades them places and kindly forgets how
comfortable its favorite seat was,


Sometimes a third player is felt, but never seen,
Buddha and Medusa are veterans and know a
double-move when they see it,
Yet, no one complains when these things happen,
There’s something to it and they can feel it,

Like a broken lantern leaking burning oil lights a
bigger light to disclose a warehouse of lanterns
and untouched suns breathing to be lit, waiting for
the right match, the right wingless angel to wander
in with a candle, unaware of its bright destiny.