He who does not see God in the next person he meets, need look no further.
In a blue baseball cap, you wheeled through the crowd,
with a child’s excitement, a wide, joyous smile.
You touched the woodcarvings, examined paintings,
talked with artists on that hot, sunny day.
Then you stopped at a photographer’s booth,
noticing the tall, dark man,
heavy dreadlocks halfway down his back,
wearing pink cotton pants, fuchsia sash.
Every movement had charismatic grace.
His name was Emerson.
His pictures drew you in, held you.
Then you began to cry.
You apologized, but tears continued
as you saw the world in tones of sepia,
vibrant blues, purples, reds,
children in rags, grizzled old men,
Buddhist monks, mothers holding babies.
They were from Thailand, Tibet, India, China,
places you would never see
except through the eyes of this young man
who captured the beauty of each human moment.
You took his large hands in yours
as you struggled to express your feelings.
He picked out a photograph of a man,
his bearded face lined with years,
captioned with a quote from Gandhi,
and placed it in your hands.