the tinsel gifts of crows

i reach out to contact You, Shiva, but i cannot
dent the dense interior coronavirus haze.
i cannot reach You, so i drop into a deep daze.
i sink. i float. i snag upon thorny vasanas,
empty & drained of energy, joy & liveliness.

the body resembles a zombie refugee, slow,
heavy as gravity, composed of mud, meat & bone,
now absolved by unthinking, unfeeling raw dark sleep.
void of intent & organization, there is rest,
a descent & upsurge, a cleansing, a long release.

Shiva, reduced in vitality by a virus,
i look for You behind the moving shadow surface
anyway, for only You give the depth that i seek,
the height that i aim for & the strength to continue.
i am Your own primal kin returning now to You.

i bring poems, offered like the tinsel gifts of crows,
sincerely grateful that You are here to receive them,
these small shiny bright innocent tributes i give now.
OM NAMAH SHIVAYA

Author: swadharma9

i am 82, living in a nursing home and deepening my spiritual life as is appropriate as one ages. i am a student of the Sanatana Dharma and a devotee of Lord Shiva. View all posts by swadharma9