I was an oppressed people.
I wandered long
and became very tired of wandering.
I hugged the banks
of the green river and
shredded lives of high calibre.
Crying hard and loud
I voiced irritation
that rubbed edges raw.
And soon I walked
into the promised land.
Even before, even before I died.
It was green and fertile
and without enmity.
Without rancor I tended gardens.
And in the wide calm of doing
I knew of Being.
Ah, it was so. It was so.
Tending the cabbages
I found the young fruit sweet.
Tending the orchards, I found the hearts tender.
It was in the doing that I found beauty.
And I know it has never been done this way.
And I have done it before.
Each time fresh, each time new,
but the promise and the land even
more beautiful than I had remembered.
But even now, new eyes approach mine
and I whisper. . . . search for it,
search for it.
It is real and when you find it,
you will know it never was a place
but a time in the heart.