Lowness of high grass bows to earth’s surface in remembrance of better times when the great storm grabbed lightening by the waist, and danced with her the night away before the rising sun made his presence known. How shall I paint this day? Spring lifts her skirt as winter chills act as stewards in my garden.
© Jennifer Brookins
Ancient kings and queens disguised as dandelions carry on; roadside weeds in a world passing them by, unwanted strangers viewed not for their royal bloodline but irritants to those who court foreplay.
© Jennifer Brookins
Oh Weaver,
In heaven’s darkness, solstice was a reckoning, no tear ever so lonely as shed by winters moon drawing heat from midday sun into her aura, pronounced her loneliness; sleeps this night in the berth of heaven’s darkness, all manner of nomads on earth’s floor pay homage to sea and sky, owls, grey wolves, seahorses, and a bowl of tomatoes ripe from loving from lowly vegetable kingdom overcome their differences, sit together in silence, their heads bowed low, pass no judgment nor devour each other, It pleases you greatly to perform this miracle. Without warning fierce winds blow throughout the kingdom and the four earthly species become sightless, forbidden wedding between sun and moon has no witness, time suspends itself for this auspicious occasion. Her longing finds no respite in nights hush, sun consumed by her nearness carves a red talisman upon her heart inside of which slow burns his ecstasy as they lay within each other under canopied sky filled with changeling stars she whispers in his ear,
“Beloved, close your eyes I’ve a wedding gift for you.” moon places a snow cone inside his heart to quench his thirst during scalding midday heat.
such was the birth of dawn.
Copyright © 2020 Jennifer Brookins
“Busloads of Indians who arrived the day before seem happy to sleep outside in sub-zero weather just to be near him and pay their respects to this great Saint. I notice some without shoes wearing only thin shawls around their shoulders. They don’t seem to care. More busloads from other nearby villages are just arriving. The moment we drive through the gates I hear a groundswell of voices singing shabds of love and devotion. The air is electric with song. I feel a sense of relief as though I’ve come home again. Baba Ji is greatly loved by all. Whenever he travels to give satsang, the Indian hotline lets everyone know when he’s about to drive through the front gate. No matter how exhausted he is, he makes time to hear the children sing shabds he taught them at a very young age. Afterwards, he gives them candy prashad. It is something to behold.”
~ A passage from India with a Backpack and Prayer.