FIVE SEASONS AND A GARLAND: 5

Baba, each morning, I dust Your portrait's glass.
First the frame, then round the mat I pass.

Neck, shoulders, arms, so I descend.
Each day is different with You, my Friend.

I linger at Your toes, wipe each with care,
then rising up, I brush Your lustrous hair.

I save Your face for last, dust round Your ears,
and when I reach Your eyes, mine fill with tears.

Who's been dusting whom? I might well ask,
for I feel changed doing this simple task.

A friend told me that after You passed on,
Mehera would dust Your photos every dawn,

And so I've taken up the discipline,
polishing the glass without, within,

In hopes someday to wipe away all view
of self and through the glass see only You.