Of course, this world is but illusion,
a thin veneer, really:
in all its beauty, majesty, and glory,
in all its pain and sorrow, toil and strife.
It is still but an outer shell, occasionally translucent,
over the deeper realm where the Spirit dwells
and all is Being, all is one.
But these little beings which we each are,
though we bear the breath of God within us,
need bodily lives to lead. We need to feel the living
that we do; see the colors that amaze us.
We need to know the tiny miracles of this world,
before we move deeper in our journey toward the Spirit.
Though it may seem a divided domain--
God on one side of the Wall and we on the other--
in fact, of course, all creation is one; we know that:
the angels inside of us are but God writ small;
writ in a language these feeble eyes can read;
spoken in a language these failing ears can hear;
reflected in our smaller glory, our little games,
that gives us something to hold onto
when the chill of winter has gone on too long,
and we wait impatiently for the springtime of our souls.