The primordial sun;
that old fire that shone its allegiance to my foremothers and mothers past-
now dressed my face in its amber gold.
How the sun can be so loud that
i can hear its ibaadat i will never know.
And in its March warmth, i watched
the sidelines stigmatized with trees illicit
one particular tree caught my eyes.
It was bare. It hardly held any leaves.
It had no answers to offer but itself.
Its gnarled perfect branches were shaped
like a sacred candelabrum-
the kind Jews light for Hanukkah.
Proffering its devotion to the skies above,
to an ancient waiting light,
in all its nakedness, in all its emptiness,
in all its self allowing,
profuse and complete in its deficiency,
this tree was sensual in its endured longing,
reveling in its utter aradhana.
This exquisite samarpanam
was the most exposed desire
i'd ever come across that day and in awhile.
There was something soft and spacious
in this willing participation.
This muted kiss. This quiet intercourse.
This slow-deep understanding between worlds
that it very simply moved me to tears.
We maybe collapsing under the weight of the many unprecedented yet well presaged crises.
But there is beauty, still.
And we still can make love.