There is no power, like calling the invisible
From the estranged intensity
Of these pockets of soul
These coloured hosts of spirit


A personal episode of faith
On a sunny windless afternoon
The point where Spring turns to Summer
Showing no signs of mastering
Solitude, brusque abrupt compassion will do


A white-daylight Buddhist sort of service
That serves all without judging
There is no power, like community
The human act will make us real again
Connect our knowledge to daily humility


Regaining last crumbs of empathy
Lingering a while like fluff blown
To pollinate what and for who and how


There is no power, like a love
That never has to say goodbye, because
We learned to love everyone a bit
Like a Buddhist ceremony of humanity.

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But now it is us who pauses
The author reading for writing a story
The language that reverses us
To a most primitive lucky passenger

A witness where the light breaks
Into a reverence for literature
The spoken, written, mutable word
All symbols that connect the dots


The dots that were stars, people, children
Young as life seems to new eyes
Full of liquid cherished wonder
I remember the dazed starling

Of the joy of writing, reading became
A brilliant daring of how I sought
To imitate a world that had come and gone
And to give new meaning to old words


And to combine Sanskrit and mandarin
Ideas into contemporary English
But now it is us who pauses
And I dream fluently

And I give in to the neurological pangs
Of melting into the created word
The unity sentences of all belonging
To the same story, of the same source.