The rose apple tree has been quietly
laying a pink carpet at the entrance
to the stuppa closest to our home,
the one it has taken longest to find.

Ten thousand other steps to
ten thousand other holy places
before a frangipani opened
and invited us here, to stand
beside the fresh pinkness
and marvel at its softness,
its gentle willingness to fall
and be walked over
by eager pilgrims looking
for something more
than the sweet way pink decays,
becomes no more
than the hint of an old imprint
outside the holy walls.

What a way it is to paradise,
no way at all,
and so we wait, dearest,
beneath the old rose apple,
our love renewed
for this changing world,
happy that we will pass softly
at the entrance, pointing
in the direction of home.