Enga mellom fjella

You could think me

You could think me

You could think me yet still not thank me
for being who I am. For thoughts
are never enough without the depth of heart,
the knowing of an apple to its core.
The truth thát tree once bore, now bare of fruit,
stripped by ignorance from animals
that seek to soar to stars,
but leave their souls behind.
You could think me
yet never create an image
worthy of my thanks.

Kåre Enga 2007 [164.252] 2007-09-24

Well, I met my sister's neighbor Cynthia Jones. She's empress of her mustang empire, queen of her nasturtiums, siren of spaghetti squash. She has two kittens in her small, low ceilinged house. Her yard has landmines form dalmatians, waterlilies' last pink bloom. She has ripening apples, pears and grapes, cucumbers on the vine and the time to chat. We wore my sister out. Her father, Edward L Jones, is a well known author of Black History, focusing on the forgotten poeple of African roots and their contributions through the centuries: the Egyptian pharoahs, Beethoven and Pushkin, various members of the European houses of royalty among many others.

Dr. Ali-Muhamed Varqa (1912-2007) has passed away at 95. I met him once in New York at a district convention. He was the last living 'Hand of the Cause of God', a station of servitude given to him by Shoghi Effendi, guardian of the Bahá'í Faith, in 1955.

Monroe, Washington: 53º and grey on this 18th day of Might.

092