You are,
And you become still,
The white star
Cast in the slivers
Of the ashwood tree
And the Black Madonna
Who swings on the gold swing
Of your rose-ringed car,
Carried through cities old
As the emerald wings of time,
Unbent.
Where are you in the wandering
Whisper of the canted
Tide
Along the rock-cut
Ghost-shelled
Shore,
When only
gulls can hear the ringing
Echo
Of the soft-belled
Singing
And the murmur
Of the many-lilied morning,
Of the waves that tiptoe
Back into the sea?
Forest voices, green-mossed, among the damp sod,
There you unfold
The unsuspected peace
Of the day
Of clouds,
Of gray
And wind-boned shrouds,
Of rain, from where bands
Of brave geese,
Hurtling,
Climb
Above the northmost hill
The blue Himalaya.
In the winds, you stir
Beside
The ever-present,
Southern rocks of Arunachala,
The mountain that is God.
The quick-footed magic,
The dragon-bright beauty
Of the cosmic
Dance of Nataraja,
And the truth of all that ever is or could be,
All are held
Then and now, and evermore
In the starsent,
Moon-enchanted
Rivers
Of your hands.
© Sharon St Joan May 18, 2013