He sits in the deep shadows of a long evening.
His wheelchair moored against an old picnic table.
Silence. The mind is, he says. Leaves rustle in the soft breeze.
The creek offers blessings over rocks, whispers. Silence.
The mind, he says again. Silence. His eyes close,
his head tilts towards the stars, as he searches for words.
Doctors see the brain as the mind. He says, the heart,
a sudden rush of language. The mind, he says. Silence.
Before my stroke, I was looking forward.
Are you still? No, he said. Silence. The mind.
But I’m here now. The creek answers.
A riff from an article I read in the Chronicle, Stroke Teaches Ram Dass Anew to `Be Here Now' / Spiritual teacher slowly recovering by Don Lattin
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