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autobiographical monk

pigtails and freckles
playing in the rain
creating a liminal world
in the world
next to the way

gathering flowers
for soup and pine cones
for bread and
planning nothing
finding a way

present to the threshold
of water and communion
of darkness and breath
of loneliness and light
loss and the way

innocent eyes suddenly
seeing the boy
who lives in a
ramshackle home
across the way

noticing beautiful skin
a smooth cocoa
seeing all the colors
ground by heels  
the way

not here
but in the disheveled
and disturbed and
distressed homes
finding no way

i drop the soup
and bread and
scream and flail
my fists at ghosts
in the way

pick up a rod
and a staff and
stride into the
blaze following
the way

note:  this is an edited, updated version of an earlier poem.

autobiographical monk: for National Poetry Month and the Writing Prompt of Poetic Asides (profile) and NaPoWriMo.

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