So, dear one you think
you know me and I
think I know you but
what do we really know?
Arriving on the planet at
the same time, our stories
remain divergent and
mysterious. How can I
remember what it felt like
to be you in any given year?
I do recall my own life, still
there may be elements I’ve
hidden from myself
much less from you—the
important stuff that covertly
makes me who I am. What’s
life? to me a curious
jewel by which radiance I’ve
been blind-sided, only to
learn not to stare too long,
(I see the glare has carved
lines into the skin around
your eyes also,) the colorful
dazzling dance that keeps
me wondering, the brilliant
light that forces my attention
I cherish this being alive but
it is tiring. And death? (you
ask in present fear,) I’ve met
too close, too many times
to sleep so well at night that
I’m caught unaware of its
ever-present possibility.
My friend Buddha said get
used to it— whatever joy there
is in living shares a place
at the table with sorrow.
The lesson unlearned, I
remain attached, clutching
(for your acknowledgment,) and
I guard myself and those I love
with monotonous chanting
prayers of hope and caution.
Then why does life exhaust
me while death puts me on
the alert? Should it not be
the other way around? Last
question—God? I don’t
know, I don’t know…
maybe there is no god maybe
there’s nothing but God. I
only know enough to know
that I don’t know enough
about God and myself and you.
Now that you know all this
imagine a knowing without
description, few words, no
facts to remind us who
we are, just some glimpse
of recognition between two
kindred groping souls, both
laughing and crying at life
and death. Perhaps God’s
who we know about each
other— you know?