Morning Raga
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

Praise wanders the fields, the wind,
the long roads cut through forests.

What isn’t an altar? Everything practices
devotion, and everyday the morning opens holy books.

Does it matter if we’re in our millionth or seventh
incarnation? We’re all headed towards comforting hands.

It is no mere thing to become aware of your own
glories. Ask the nearest angel or ancestor.

The feeling of nearness, the unlit, ready lamps,
the fair principles of darkness.

I think I would never want the absence of desire.
Samadhi can wait, and every step is your darshan anyways.

The all-encompassing word, the way death washes
nothing away, the full blaze of light—

the day holds nothing in contempt.
Somewhere there’s a brown bear—its fur rippling, like

wheat with hunger, trundling towards a river.
It’s fat-surrounded heart is vigorous with joy and the soon

to be splashing for salmon. The unfolding morning raga
is strumming every string on every heart.