Which Way Is North (or The Parable of the Three Sons)

"I've found a secret truth to dwell upon."

The coffee ever-dripping down our meditative chins

Was not as scalding as the breeze that whispered through the blinds.

We trail across the room and join in song 

With clinking of the teaspoon,

All the while, she, enveloped in the flutter of her velvet robe.

With dull mid-morning sunrise creeping through the curtains,

Made of waning joy, I thought me in a dream.

"I've found a secret truth to dwell upon."

Oh, what could this all mean,

The coming words from one of Ophir?

It's as if a dove had dwelt there

Offering food from angel's fingers;

Twelve bells in and twelve rods out,

But neither form may strike a chord.

"There were three sons," she first began,

"Within an ancient, reverent home.

"The first son took his conscience

Everywhere he went, feeding it

And looking after it, so as to not

Destroy or spoil what he had in power,

Always taking care to keep it safe.

Alas, one day, he took it out

From in his bejeweled box he kept it in,

To find it withered quite away

And starved from lack of use.

"The second son could feel within his bones

Inferno strong and inconsolable,

Which drove him to the streets and alleyways

To search for spirits in the cold

So he could keep them warm and give them light.

Alas, the fire inside him grew and grew

Until the souls devoured by the anger in his flame

Outnumbered any good intentions

Of his raging, beating heart.

"The third son had his eyes on shapes

Too far and dim for us to see,

And always did his hands go out before him

To invite the supreme mystery into his soul,

Expecting to provide a healing touch one day.

Alas, his chamber door was seldom locked,

And other mysteries took notice,

And by the time he realized this,

His hands were used for sin instead of righteousness.

“I’ve found a secret truth to dwell upon.”

And she went on:

“A bloom of water lilies reaching out 

Beyond the glassy rim that holds them there,

Thus perched upon the tabletop,

Yet seeking to remove themselves from watery vessels,

Are no less beautiful than all the wilted buds,

Heavy and brown, all drooped in reverence,

That hide their youth beneath the glen.

And those themselves are not complete in beauty

Lest another be considered:

The pool of life itself, the water 

Holding both in stillness; this both draws the life

Up from the roots and sends forth blossoms

Spreading far and wide to dwell upon the earth

And thus make earthly cares seem strangely dim.”

Awake, my soul; and see, my eyes;

For underneath the glassy skies

Are wholly answered, sound replies

That soothe with balm my vain surprise.

- - -

What rhymes are there that give us grounds

To touch the face of God?

It could not be the voices 

Shouting in the wind and heard in answer to itself:

"Roll out your lives upon the ground;

And take great care to disallow the crinks

That warp and bend the path

That He Himself will tread upon",

In this with no concern for why it should be done.

Nor might it be the hands and feet,

One sprinting body linking arms

For battlements and girding of its loins

With loving teeth for tightened fists,

Yet eyesight still it lacks, and no amount of rage

Or justified disdain can give it fortitude.

And certainly it cannot be the rays of sun,

Sifting through the dusty room

To glide upon the windowpane,

And seeking far beyond themselves

A mystic force with unity and might,

Their faces ever turned outward and never inwardly

As, time and time again, they hit the floor.

No, all of this and more

Can be considered, taken to account

When finding we have stumbled off the path.

These facets of this way are certain truth

So as to point us to complete and holy life;

But, then, not when so viewed as with a microscope,

Dissecting every speck of dust that we kick up

In vain attempts to climb out of the ditch

And reset our journey.

We long take too much notice of the grass

That we forget, and then mistake,

The meadow as a whole as much too simple.

If then, rather, we opened a compass instead,

And looked upon the mighty mountain peaks,

We then may understand which way is North

And put our eager feet back on the road.