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The Stranger

 

A stranger wandered into the gathering. . .

No one recognized her.

They spoke of love;
endless deeds accumulated
like stacks of golden coins. . .

Elevated, for all to see,
before being deposited
in the deep, dark vault of self.

The stranger had none,
but offered Presence.

None accepted, for she spoke too softly. . .
to be heard amidst the clamor.

The offer passed like a whisper in the night,
slipping between the gathering, of deeds. . .
held up to the light.

 

~ by Simeon Nartoomid+
September 12, 2002