Transmutation
M. L. THANGAPPA
It was black, leaden
And empty–
An ordinary begging bowl.
Hands of love
That stood the test of fire
Filled it to the brim.
It was a benediction.
The hungry ones
Came in thousands
With eager bowls
And went away filled.
The supply
Never ran out.
Love stirred up love.
Springs inexhaustible
Welled up from within
Through the barren pores
In an abundance
That replenished itself
Without end.
The black, leaden pettiness
Vanished.
The bowl was golden now,
Ana fit to hold
Ambrosia.