This world of two gardens, both so beautiful. This world, a street where a funeral is passing.
Let us rise together and leave this world, as water goes bowing itself down to the sea.
From gardens to the gardener, from grieving to a wedding feast.
We tremble like leaves about to let go. There is no avoiding pain, or feeling exiled, or the taste of dust.
But also we have a green-winged longing
for the sweetness of the friend.
These forms are evidence of what cannot be shown. Here is how it is to go into that.
Rain that has been leaking into the house
decides to use the downspout.
The bent bowstring straining at our throats
releases and becomes the arrow.
Mice quivering in fear of the housecat suddenly change
to half-grown lion cubs, afraid of nothing.
So let us begin the journey home, with love and compassion for guides, and grace protecting.
Let your soul turn into a mirror
that passionately wants to reflect Joseph. Hand him your present. Now let silence speak. As that begins, we will start out.