SONG OF THE LOTUS

 

In the silence of the heart

grows the tender white lotus blossom

that is your life.

Water it gently with your tears.

Bathe it in the sunlight of your hopes

and the soft moonlight of your dreams.

Listen! for the trees are sighing,

holding out their arms as you approach,

hoping you will truly see them

at least one time

before you die,

will let them hold you gently

as you cry.

Behind your sleeping eyes

lies the Watcher In the Woods,

the one who nudges you this way and that,

who sighs wearily, when you do not

heed her call,

this One who knows you best of all,

who has picked you up after every fall.

As we draw closer to the end of things,

our spirit slows, our voices gentle,

we are not nearly as certain as we once

so vociferously were.

It is time for softness now,

and reflection,

for looking back and for remembering.

We need much silence now,

a silence of the heart

weary from making its own way.

We speak more softly, and less often,

the young won't listen anyway.

They have to find

their own befuddled way,

their own steep price

in pain to pay.

Our song now is a murmuring brook

trickling over some knotted roots;

we are content to meander whimsically

through this golden autumn-before-winter,

letting go like the last withered leaf

on the gnarled old maple,

twirling dreamily down

to the mossy bank,

where we sit for a spell,

lulled by the water's flow.

So soft, its voice, as soft

as the somnolent song of our lives

the last notes sounding,

holding death at bay,

before they gently, softly, finally

fade away.

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