Wrapped in mortality’s blanket the first cradled cry, thine
A brief vacation as toddler, uttering favorite words like, “No”
A trip to youth’s Ashram meditating on the mantra, “Mine”
A passage on time’s cruise ship, in the birth of life’s throes,
A journey wearing a mantle of cinnabar, spikenard and sorrow –
Like the oil flowing down the hem of Aaron’s priestly garment –
Then to preside at the city gates, anointing with drips of insight:
Sojourners, hikers, in a land the Author of Life, has not forgot.