Kundalini Splendor

In Honor of John O’Donohue

(l954-2008)

He wrung beauty
from small moments.

Even the stones
spoke to him
in languages
we barely remember.

The streams,
the shifting clouds—
all were his
to claim through
naming,
to own by the declaration
of his sculpted syllables.

The flowers
spoke benedictions
as he passed by:
he turned their voices
into song.

The trees gave
silent homage
even as he bowed
before them,
a man of leaf and oak.

He was intimate
with all the elements,
what moved
below the earth
and what
scurried above.

Ireland ran
in his blood,
he was Ireland,
her son,
her famous pride,
her wild gesture
of giving
to the world.

Dorothy Walters
January 6, 2007