Michael Schiller's Page

An American sits at the base of a statue
In the light rain, pushing puffs of smoke
Over his drooping jaw. Others have gathered
In the dusky winter grey, clutching
Umbrellas and each other.
A child stands before them, delicate as frost,
In heavy clothes, a black watch cap
Belying a fluttering brown mane.
She holds a guitar much larger than she.
I lean against the nearest wall, watching
While she plays that instrument
As if she had been born with it,
Raising her voice in a bold
And gritty vibrato
That her years cannot account for.
She plays her soul through that guitar,
Casting it over the crowd
To be dissolved in the light rain
And soak into our clothes and our skin
And change us.
A kind of white aura rises from her,
Like a discharge of spiritual energy,
Cascading in all directions,
Waving rhythmically, like some
Opalescent blood-warm flame.
I'm not ashamed that I want to cry;
I want to let the dampness stream
Down my face to be dried by the cold wind
That is raining leaves and other bits
Of floral matter all over me,
Embedding them in my hair.
I love that little girl,
And all the people who stand around
Watching in nameless joy,
And all people across Asia
And across the oceans,
And I send out great pulses
Of love and oneness
That penetrate the Earth and spring up
As forgiveness and understanding
And radiate and scatter
In waves across the universe.
But before I can cry, a smile
Creeps to my eyes
And frustrates their plans.