Boring I may be, but not bored,
for that so-called vacant stare you think you see
is really an acute awareness of Presence everywhere,
shimmering in leaf and stone,
and resonating, always—that holy Voice
that tells me nothing is ever alone.
I am listening, listening.
And that is prayer, if anything is.
It’s true I have less to say these days
about all the this and that,
mistakenly appearing bored, perhaps,
but I am more interested in the surrounding
Song of Mysteries, heard, but yet to comprehend,
Mysteries, real, enticing and humbling all at once.
Oh, but forgive me, please, if,
when I am involved, awkwardly, in your conversation,
If I do sometimes fail to sidestep some barb
attached to sarcasm, cynicism, or even humor
coming my way, and then,
I add my own pseudo-wise slicing and parsing and analyzing
of Everything, and thus momentarily be blind
to the Great Mystery of you, and who you are,
you, this sacred portion of the Mighty Undivided,
and, thus, I must ask, again, please forgive me
if I neglect to reflect to you the rich and holy beauty
I see in who you are, when I am paying attention.