When You open the door

Rasa Ravi, 2021

When You open the door,
standing on the threshold,
my heart would jump to Your open arms
not waiting for the chest and body to follow.
The door would disappear, melted by Your divine form
made from the flowers of delight.
You come as a precious Guest to my shack
and I have but one chair to offer:
the chair of the ‘I.’
Please, sit down.

When You open the windows
to come in sun-clad with the green of life,
to come in with the wind carrying scents and sounds,
to come in with the flickering stars
shapeshifted as animals’ nocturnal eyes
watchfully staring at my soul,
I am not confident on which side of the windows I stand.

When You drill through my basement
so that I can imbed my roots in Your moisture,
You change me into various vertebrates,
You change me into various chordates,
You change me into various arthropods,
You change me into many of Your forms.
You show me how to fly like an insect,
You show me how to drink like a plant,
You show me how to move with flagella,
You show me how to make chemical bonds.

When You lifted my roof,
I almost went crazy,
couldn’t find any place inside to rest,
couldn’t find any means to keep sanity intact,
there was no way to survive the torment.
But You said:
“Come out, come out of yourself, come to Me.”
And I went, went outside of myself, to Your arms.