THE FLAME IN THE LOTUS

XXX.
Outside, there are bright echoes of the birds.
Whistles and responses, calls and caws.
I hear them nightly and, in the summer light,
They are the music that puts me to sleep
Despite the brightness that seeps through the dark curtains.
Sets of threes, then maybe a response of twos, and a whistle.
And then again.
It continues whether I am ready for bed or not.
During the day, those same birds go about their business
With no one listening.
But their music still is within them, their song, resting, waiting to
Be called up at the end of the day
When I am ready to hear them once again.
We are always too busy to hear our Mother´s call,
But patiently, she waits until we are softened by pain
Or sorrow. Then we hear quite well.

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