The surfers of Encinitas loll like seals on their Ghosts
As the channelers look out to sea like fisherman’s wives,
The endless horizon ever diminishing.
The ground where you are now, Yogananda’s garden,
Becomes, for want of anywhere better,
The center of the Universe.
Everything revolves around everything,
To show to the different sides
Passing in the night --
Both halves are whole –
Each will recognize its missing perspective
Although it cannot see itself
And thus will never know how truly large it is,
Larger than any microcosm or miniature
That never stops being all there is
In every moment that never misses anything,
Like the pond with ferns placed perfectly, the sound
Of falling water to match the open mouths of koi,
And the benches in the trees
Where the metaphysical was hashed out,
Which still retain the love of truth
Even if all that was once chosen has fallen
Into disrepair if not outright error
Some time ago,
But the blue hats still sit by the pool,
Empty as usual, like the minds here try
Resolutely to be …
The cliffs though --
The cedars twisted into spirals by the hillside
Where the temple once fell to the sea.
The distractions are endless.
