Worship

Here  I come face to face with my god
That comes to my  mind, as a mere word.
I squat in this little marble room of gods
With yellow rice in palms, a dot on brow.
Outside the words I cannot think of him
In a sky of vapor, floating about wearing
Flower garlands, with music on the body .

God is a word ringing in a marble corner
Of  fragrant smoke, of some white flames
Smiling in ancient clothes, in long arms
Owning bows and arrows, ready for evil.
Lotuses bloom in milk ponds with ripples
From folds of snake hood protecting him
From rain and sun, from  the winter cold.
He is still a word from our wordy ancients.

The words are images, pictures of things
Sorrow and lightness, recalled in thought.
The words are ancient, as gods are wood
Stone and clay and paper,in some fine art.
As we recall the words in the marble room
We are filled with  warm goodness in belly.
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