My little girl leads me through her grown up world
of townhouses, trolleys, bodegas, cafes, and corner
stores. The smell of coffee cuts the soggy breeze.
Elsewhere the world churns. Fierce preachers poke
ancient wounds and politicians scratch the scabs.
Privilege feasts as Lazarus lies by padlocked gates.
Here, wizened men once interred in wartime camps
mingle with young mothers in yoga tights wielding
late-model strollers down the kinder sidewalks.
The streets of Inner Sunset are baptized in morning
rain. A small shop bears the sign - Make loaves not
war. We are far from the breaking madness, beyond
the contagion of hate. The implosion is put on hold.
In the face of chaos Mohammed went to the mountain
and Buddha withdrew. Even Jesus retreated. We enter
the garden and drift through a feather mist where sweet
plumes scent the heavy air. The city recedes. We trace
slow paths through flora that once graced Eden. White
blossoms litter the soft moss carpet beneath a baby cedar
grove. Gray rocks anchor grass islands in a raked sand
sea. We step to the trickle of cobblestone creeks and glide
past Koi ponds. A bronze Buddha, old as our country,
casts a placid spell on those who pause. The prophets
all returned. Mohammed spoke the Koran, Siddhartha
woke the Sangha, and Jesus preached the Kingdom.
We turn home together, bearing the grace of soft rain
in a parched land. Peace awaits in the folds of time.