autobiographical monk

pigtails and freckles
playing in the rain
creating a world beyond
in the world

gathering flowers
for soup and pine cones
for bread and
planning nothing

present to the threshold
of water and light
of darkness and breath
of alone and communion

seeing
really seeing the boy
who lives across
the way in a ramshackle home

noticing beautiful skin
a smooth cocoa
noticing all the colors
are across the way

not here or there
but in the disheveled
and disturbed and
distressed across the way

dropping the soup
and bread and
screaming unfair
flailing fists at ghosts

picking up a rod
and a staff and
striding into
the blaze

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