Oriental Odyssey: Groves of the Goddess

I am home.

Here is love,
that comes back meekly,
having strayed so far
that it believes
it will not find
acceptance in any
of its churches,

an outcast goddess
searching for its home.

Yet, our churches are not
made of stone or book,
they are groves of light
and menageries of colour
that will know
bright blossoms
and dark decay,

which in turn will perfume
the air that carries
the truth:

that there is no such thing
as leaving at all,
or completely brushing away
life debris off the
shoulders of the soul,

living is a yeast
kneaded too deep
into the bread of us,

and sometimes even its sin
is a form of prayer,
if it acknowledges
the sinning
is a way
to reach within,

a true oriental
odyssey,
sunrise searching;

for everything
that is said or done
leaves a sense of presence,
however small its evidence,

a touching testament to
nothing really goes,
except into hiding
to return home;

in the sun dappled
groves of the goddess
to converse with love,

hoping to understand
its mark left in places
as steps in the grass,
as moss pushing
through stone.

From the collection: "The Story of Living Things" >>

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