The little orphan and I walked down the mountain to the city to buy shoes. She slipped out of her small rubber sandals into a new pair, carefully counted 45 rupees (less than one US dollar) into the shopkeeper's hand, and walked away.
"Wait! " I called, as I reached for the discarded shoes. "You've forgotten your old sandals. "
She glanced back at me, "No, leave them," she firmly replied. "I only need one pair. Leave them for someone who has none. "
I sing of hemlocks whispering mysteries,
Of meadows green with promise,
Of lakes with secrets,
Of mountain peaks in touch with eternity,
Of solitude filled with murmurings we can never quite hear,
Of presences that hover just beyond the edge of perception,
Of meanings etched in snow, transcribed with wings;
I sing the truth
Of hidden things.
~ from THE ART OF BEVERLY DOOLITTLE by Elise MacLay and Bev Doolittle
