A Call to Prayer

Come into my bed, Siddhartha,
and feel the warmth of my brown skin
next to the cool smooth of the sheets.

The air is fragrant with incense
and the glow of small flames of candles and oil lamps
stir and flicker in the slightest moon breezes
catching the darkness of your eyes.

You knew from my first glance that I would welcome you here
gladly entering this game of love we must learn and share—
Consort and Master,
Mother and Child,
Flower and buzzing Bee,
Rain and rushing River. . .

I have waited this long day for you to join me, sweetest one,
and the ache of longing leaves my throat and tongue
tinted with the taste of metal
that must be washed clean with new wine
and freshly harvested fruit.

I have the reflexes of a cat this evening
anticipating your arrival and find myself caught
between stretching and nervous napping. . .
pacing the cage of my beautiful gardens
both ignoring and bringing into view
the flowers and the blades of grass
where your feet will travel
to this sanctuary to learn with me,
to discover what it means to open the heart
to all hearts.

My body trembles, my love,
with the distant thunder of an earthquake
that will surely bring us to our knees
that will both change and delight us
so that we might see all humanity
flash silently
in the face of our loving.

I hear you at the gate
and your voice is the bell
that calls me to prayer.