THE FLAME IN THE LOTUS

XLVII.
Sometimes the holy sits tight
Waiting for recognition among the pens
And paper clips on the desk.
Sometimes, I talk to the spider plants while watering
And I know they hear me.
Around the lake I walk and near one corner, on the southeast side
There is a small white ash, too remote
To be visited, alone in the moss, higher than the path.
I see it and bow my head, but sometimes it calls me
In its majestic silence, so mysterious, so just there,
And I don´t know what to do, what to say.
Holy is the path, holy are the steps, holy the reward.
But this dumb priest gets too caught up in his own mess
To breathe in the sparkling Life all around him.

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