The Day Our Flower Pot Fell...

That Day Our Flower Pot Fell, You Broke (Open) my Heart.

I was angry you took the phone off the hook.

I didn’t realise you were just putting the receiver  on the lower shelf,

because it was easier for you to reach, so you could practice saying "hello".

I was angry you left the cover off your brand new markers,

and they dried up.

Such waste! I fretted.

Later, I noticed how difficult they were for even Know-It-All fingers.

I was angry when I slipped in the water you spilled all over the floor.

I never thanked you for watering the plants.

You were not here, but I was angry,

the day I  found  the  hanging clay pot broken -

our sunny bougainvillea on the floor.

When I brought you home from Granny's you said, “Broke!” with all the sadness in the world.

Did I make a toddler  care so much, for nothing much ?

And, as though you had broken it,

As though you were responsible

for gravity itself,

all soldier-like,

you marched in with that little toy broom,

which had swept our yellow lily pad,

and the little plastic bucket,

that toted our Maracas sand

you toddled and took charge,

would not allow me to  bend.

You picked it all up

from start to finish,

resisting Mummy's involvement

except as Witness, and Company Keeper.

We were  sad when the flower pot broke my son,

 heavy from the weight of the  great growth it contained.

Now I am  happy, the old clay cracked,

For the Son's shine.

A note:
Living Metaphors are lived. It feels to me like a divinely authored moment bridging my outer life to a profound inner reality and vice versa.  In this way, what is unseen  manifests meaning into the world of senses that we call reality; more  consciously known and  directly experienced.  Witnessing these seemingly infinite and always meaningful connections through the senses, awakens an awareness in me revealing that  life itself is  Guru,  every situation Holy Ground, and each person without exception, an instrument of the Beloved.

Reading Under the Covers

Light, like a sheet.

I am under the sheet,

with a small light of my own.

I am reading.

It is not a book, nor is there any device.

I am reading the light.

Reading my light in relation to the sheath which envelopes me.

Differences manifest, a crevice, a cranny, a nook and a tuck.

It is no bother at all, to be different here.