Pilgrimage

(For Shalina Najeeb and Peter Vanderaa)

Near the ashram gate, palm trees flow with the wind;
gladioli begin to open.

Our notion of time dissolves for just a moment,
as in a dream one meets with dead or unborn relatives

and thinks the eternal present unremarkable.
There's nothing sacred

that won't be embodied, Gandhi said,
quoting a Sanskrit proverb.

Light-drenched air; people in plum red robes
drenched by hidden sweetness.

No other moment. Grace gives utterance
to silent music;

insight loosens our defences.
Our minds descend to the heart's uncluttered quiet;

we listen to the wordlessness
of stillness.

Eucalypt bark falls in russet flakes.
Ekdiasis: shedding of skin

as softer, inner layers expand.
We settle to the moment,

cling less tightly to thought.
Me, Mine, You, Yours ... there seems no end

to this illusion.
We intend to pay attention

to the formless,
listen to the soundless,

or at least remember: mountains were one-time craters
and plateaux one-time seas.

Nothing will appear sacred
as distinct from things that aren't;

we'll experience the many as One
and the One as occurring many times.

If this implies a deeper world, it'll be this world
seen and deeply felt.

We watch the rain, tactile rain,
in demure light.

Lowering the word spiritual into the Ganges
of the heart,

we watch it drift away into nothing,
into everything.