the woman and the Carob tree

when you grow up and you realize that things are not as simple as they seem

when do you stop?

do you stop to admire the willows and the shadow of the thistles?

when do you stop in the quest of self-inquiry?

when you grow up and you admit to the uncertainty of being-

even of the uncertainty of this exact sentence,  and you’re uncertain and muddled

so when do you stop?

do you pick up the first bus out? do you reside? do you build your own house and you occupy pain?

how do you shut the cistern of your consciousness and which cistern should be opened and which one should be closed?

and where is God in all of this? Is He the easy way out?

but always the ghost of authenticity is in the background

but really, those days when the sunset sinks deeper and when the velocity of the train annoys you, in those days when do you stop?

you look into their faces, and each- as if with a measuring stick

show the span of their digging: where are they at

and do you stay with those who are below your level or above?

and can you see your own measuring stick- measuring the immeasurable-

All I know is that when I was climbing up the hill

so i can descend it to the well on the other side,

a woman in the guise of carob tree

smelled of unanswerable questions and sweet dibs

such sweetness that inferred acceptance of uncertainty

and bitter surrender to the unknown

on the other side of the mountain.