My Friday mosque

It’s jum’ah. I chose this mosque today.

The floor of this mosque is soft like the Prophet’s first mosque. The sound of Eternal Being ripples through this mosque.

Every day I come here it is different. كُلَّ يَوْمٍ هُوَ فِي شَأْنٍ

Some days the majesty of fierce waves attacks. Or the surface shimmers like a wet dupatta. Some days it stretches toward the horizon, transparent, barely moving.

Today, grey water is One with misty white-grey sky.

The congregants mutter on the side, preening their feathers.Nothing to say about my clothes or how I am standing, sitting, or kneeling.

Prayer without words rises up through me at Friday prayers

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