This is the house of Love, which has no bound nor end.

Measured Mountains

“And there is not a thing but with Us are the treasures of it,
and we do not send it down but in a known measure.” — Qur’an 15:21

Choked up in the middle
of a crowded and dirty city,
cradling again a small treasure
not meant for the telling,
just to be carried across time’s sand,
swept up in the endless storms
we agreed to weather
on the well-worn way back down.

It’s the tiniest thing, so small
I can unwrap it here in the airport,
surrounded by sleeping passengers,
and still go unnoticed,
can still insist “Not this, not this!”

What you’re looking for I lost, long ago,
after it led me back to beautiful fear
and this dawning dependence,
a child of light destined for dark;
there to carry the decree,
empty and loving and so deeply alive
that there are always others
to say it

with you, down through the gathering
generations, here to grant you peace
if you can forget about my treasure
and the day I revealed it in transit,
took it into my hands and, having told
you how to paint the speed of light
or spend time like those rich in patience,
slipped it into your back pocket
with levity and what I like to think was wit.

Then back to waiting well for what must come
with no more questions or requests,
just that first one to find myself
and laugh my head off when we meet
in this one soul you had me sing
that night, nestled in the Himalayas.


Standing up

We have come

Eyes to serve, hands to learn