When I speak of Him

When I speak of Him, they laugh, call me fibber.

I cannot but speak of one who comes, sometimes

Three times a day, like a doctor on his rounds,

Or should I say counselor come to heal my wounds;

Wounds of the mind, in kind not different from cuts,

Lesions, gashes self-inflicted or received from friends.

He comes in Human form; sometime in animal.

More often in human than in animal. Sometimes in

The shape of Spring, or perhaps even a Famine.

His presence makes all the difference; it shakes me up,

Wakes me to the reality of what bliss or misery can be.

He seldom smiles but in his solemnity resides gaiety.

His look can pierce through stone or not disturb a falling petal.

It goes through space as though not touching it. I learn from him

As he pretends to learn from me; He gives me all as he takes

From me whatever I can give, words, food, help of any kind.

When he’s with me, to all else I am so blind.