When St Columba was near death, the monastery work horse wouldn't leave him..


The sound of hoofbeats leaving a monastery

where all is timed and measured.

You are that rider.

Someone who does not care very much about things

and results, illness and loss, you are the soul

inside the soul that is always travelling.

Mind gathers bait. Personality

carries a grudge.  You weave cloth

like the moon leaving no trace on the road.

There is a learning community where the names of God

are talked about and memorized, and there is

another residence where meanings live.

You are on the way from here to there.

Your graceful manner gives colour and fragrance

as creekwater animates the landscape it moves through.

The absolute unknowable appears as spring

and disappears in fall.

Signs come, not the essence signified.

How long will you be a shepherd singlefiling us

in and out of the human barn?

Will I ever see you

as you secretly are in silence?

-- Rumi

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