For the monk who
steps into the forest to meditate
for the rest of his days
for the hang glider who
takes off from the highest
majestic cliff
for the diver who makes
eye contact with an old whale
while the colorful school of fish
swim around him/her
for the little girl
who watches a bird soar
for the little boy who
splashes in a muddy puddle
for a mother who nurses her
babe in the wee hours of night
for the father and his working hands
for the one that loves
in the midst of coldness cruelty
and uncertainty
for the flowers that grow
the stars that glow
the moon that shines
the sun that gives
for all beings that create
for all hearts that give
and all hearts that receive
for the endless bosom
of compassion that is
capable of holding everything and
everyone with infinite love,
I give thanks.
Thanks for everything
that I know of
everything that I do not know of
and everything that
I’ll never know but
my soul feels and my heart
has always known.
May the innocence
of a tiny flower
the awe of a high mountain
the beauty of the endless
colorful Fields
the generosity of all that gives
the deepness of the ocean
and all that is beautiful and
loving stay with me
forever and always.
Hydeh Aubon
You
You merged from behind
a raspberry bush.
On a fragrant summer evening.
You were a dot of light
and I chose to see you golden.
You have been my travel-mate
since I’ve opened my eyes to life.
You’ve traveled with me through
mysteries I could never understand
and it was not your job to explain
anything; ever.
Sometimes you travel from
flower to flower and sometimes
I lose sight of you.
You become a colorful kite
vanishing into the endless sky,
a shooting star landing
where I cannot reach you.
You too sleep, maybe at the
peak of the Himalayas, maybe
on the wings of a tiny bird or
maybe on the wavelets of a calm
mysterious beautiful river.
What you whisper in my ear
cannot become a book
what you breathe into my being
cannot become a religion.
If anyone has seen you
and I’m sure they have,
if anyone has heard you,
and I’m sure they have,
then they’d also know
that the notion of you is
so ethereal, so changeable,
so paradox and so unknown
that they cannot trap you
in man-made notions.
No, you cannot be defined
and no, your whispers
have a different tune for
different souls.
Believe me,
I am trying to accept
that I’ll never know you,
never understand you.
Sometimes you become
a pouring of Jasmine petals
as a blessing for a lone traveler
who pauses to sigh.
Maybe that is a blessing
and maybe it is a blessing
that I have made peace
with not knowing you and
sometimes, achingly, loving you.