High on Life
The running children think him a drunkard
as he sits
feet swinging over the edge of the world
Sewing - a
silver needle sparkles as he mends his troubles
Binds his
free floating worries into flower blossoms
The running children think him a drunkard
Purple
circles like grape thumbprints under his sleepy eyes
He does not
startle when the sky cracks with sudden thunder
The running children, born into a different age, think him a drunkard
As the smiling
Prophet sits in his silver ever-so-slightly- thread-bare robe, rocking ever so
gently - his sleepy
lullaby peace – eyes drinking in it all
swinging
his well traveled rested-to-velvet-feet
Over the
edge of the world
As the others
rush about in random rancor – still
Waiting for
the smiling Prophet
They play to
pass time- slap their cards of life recklessly
As he
modestly trumps, again and again in loose-limbed
Complete acceptance
The running children think him a drunkard
Yet, his
eyes on the horizon and all between are clear
It is
the sweet wine of life he swallows,
licking each drop of errant nectar from his lips between frequent sips
His cup
brims
The Prophet
laughs soft breezes
Over seas, shore, plain, bush, white capped mountains
All - Rippling - Moving - Lush
The Prophet smiles
High on
Life
The littlest toddling child and the oldest among them
See
and wave
happily
happily
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| 20131012-181115.jpg _ The Sunday Whirl |
