The Healing Presence

 A Beggar with a Wooden Leg, by Rembrandt van Rijn


I go to the one who can cure me and say,

I have a hundred things wrong. Can you combine them to one?

I thought you were dead. I was, but I caught your fragrance

again, and came back to life.

Gently, his hand on my chest.

Which tribe are you from? This tribe.

He begins to treat my illness.

If I am angry and aggressive, he gives me wine.

I quit fighting. I take off my clothes.

I lie down. I sing in the circle of singers.

I roar and break cups, even big jars.

Some people worship golden calves.

I am the mangy calf who worships love.

The healing presence has called me from the hole I hid in.

My soul, if I am agile or stumbling, confused

or in my true being, it is all you.

Sometimes the sleek arrow.

Other times a worn leather thumbguard.

You bring me where everything circles.

Now you put the lid back on the wine vat, pure quiet.

Etching found here