​It isn’t easy to find
In every faded shirt
A former elegance,
In the introvert

A thwarted eloquence,
Here for the taking,
Nd a cherry pie
That is once more baking.

​You take in impressions
And spin them in the air,
Seeds into trees,
The fetus into a mare,

And this is a gift
That no wellspring could ensure,
A sea on which a ship
Turns to a hazy shore.

​In Xaafuun, the wisdom
Of the incense maker
Did not contradict
The wisdom of the baker.

The righteousness of one
Camel driver did not 
Interfere with the virtues
Of his brother. What 

Beauty lay across the peach
Desert did not conceal
The beauty of the sea,
The courtyard where the camels kneel.

The true, the genuine
Tortoiseshell did not compete
With the ivory, the spices
Bought by travelers from Crete.

Yet they all are in confusion,
The merchants of exotic hides,
The sellers of cloves,
The fathers of fresh brides,

Because of their scintillating
Skin, their competing claims,
Cumin, ginger, nutmeg,
And pepper, bright as flames.

​Oh we are as refined
As a Japanese sparrow,
We revel in our flight,
The freedom of an arrow,

Oh ony to be above this ground,
But our wings are weak
And we did not drink
Our fill from the creek,

And we are agitated, we quarrel,
Until one hour
When the sky roads glide,
Freedom will flower

Between earth and sun
On a ribbon of blue
Wind, vigorously flying
Above a forest of bamboo.

​My thoughts are elephants
Walking in a line
Trunks linked to tails.
The pine cone is attached to the pine.

But up two steppes
All thoughts flow
From the source of the river,
And they are covered with snow

Each upon its ice floe,
And all of their angles are crystal
And their sparkle reflects upward
With the bright crack of a pistol.

You know who you are:
The finest coffee in the jar,
Whose ideals are an open boat
Upon a sea to a distant sand bar.

You must come close
To the hoi polloi
And do so with humility,
Not only to deploy

Your goodness
And your influence
But to learn from them,
To relax in their tents.

There’s a natural health
It flows through the veins
Of body and soul
Of the riders of trains

With their iPhones and eyes closed,
And the wheels and p.a.
And the payments and mail,
What’s Up and Friday,

Because your ideas
And fermentation
Have rattled you so,
Disturbed the calibration.

You have the light
Unmitigated, inside
Your bones justice
And truth, wide

Seascapes perfumed
By damp and salt,
And you are exalted
By that which you exalt.

​This world of doorknobs,
Ice-rock mountains in Argentina,
That starts to smudge
When we are handed the subpoena

To appear in heaven,
To contemplate the mystic,
But this world resents
This insult, it grows atavistic,

It throws off the bonds,
It blows cylones, tornadoes,
Glaciers snap off,
Crushing Schweitzers and Platos.

And when we drill
Under the depth of the river
We find in the filth
A delicate shiver,

A quiver of pearls,
Pulled from the core,
That we rinse and make shine
In our role as janitor,

And contribute to the diadem
Of holy reflection
That gives beauty,
A sweet refection

To the Life of galaxies.
And we find
That the poison wasn’t
Ugly, the snake behind

The blind, because
Wherever the swamp flowers uncurl,
Noisome and vaporous,
A pearl remains a pearl.

​The infinite gesture, the palm 
That has no circumference,
Compared to a tight-wound spring
Is a taut and potent eminence

And compared to the infinite palm,
The spring too is might,
Both mix together
Filters and light.

The infinite palm
Is open and kind
It overwhelms, it shines,
It floods the mind.

The tight-wind spring
Performs its task,
Timing days
Of the wine in the cask,

But small in the palm,
Resisting the hand,
A planet that drifts
On the tide of the strand.

There is a small kind of sadness.
Throw it away.
Don’t give it speeches
Or the time of day.

There is a great kind of sadness
In the heart of the wise,
Upright and deep.
It is the swelling rise

Of a wave from the best
In their soul that demands
Their best, that knows
The failures of the hands

And hearts, of the net 
Of the thoughts
Of the man and the world,
The painful onslaughts

From outside the window
Or within the little room.
You cannot dismiss
This sadness with a broom.

Raise it to its goal.
Use it to strengthen 
Your will, to brighten
Your thought, to lengthen

Your reach. Draw
Awareness of being
From the source of the good.
When we start clearly seeing,

Everything turns with its wheel
Toward good. We view
Everything in the field
Of force of earth and dew,

​Till every tear is wiped
From every cheek,
Shame from the land,
From the swift, tumbling creek.

​If you want nothing for yourself,
Prayer is hard,
If you bring everything
Into the Divine yard,

But everything
Is the play of light
Of feelings and demands,
Of day and night,

And prayer itself
Its expression and bent
The nature of yearning
An organizing intent

For life and for honor,
Wealth and peace,
Children and joy,
Fullness and release,

These are the horses
Upon which ride
Wisdom and holiness
Side by side,

These are the language
Of the kindness of God,
And prayer is their soul
And clearest facade,

And this spirit
That drives the soul
Is itself the base,
The construct of the whole,

Like breath and food,
Building, growing,
Health, the clean snowing,

And then prayer enters the heart
And you descend from the sky,
Where there is no desire,
No impulse to cry,

But you pour out your heart
Like a servant pouring out
Water, seeking favor,
Life, without a doubt

Seeking health of the body,
Light of the plane
Whose kindness here
Is earth-churning rain.