4/17/2018

Choir

A choir of finches.
       The chattering sermon
            of a squirrel.

A cathedral of plum blossoms.
      With each exhalation,
           the death of Jesus.       

      
A moment in the empty tomb,

       Sunyata, then life eternal,
             the next inhalation.
     
This is the silent theology

       of breathing.
             We are each the Only

Begotten Child of the One.

        What happened 2000
              years ago does not

Concern us now.

         Salvation is amazement.
              The weather?
      
Scattered showers, partly sunny:
          Therefor it is
               judgment day,

            
The sound
          of a wood thrush

               is the end of time
       
And because I am awake,

          a dogwood blossom
               is the coming of Christ.

Let me plummet into grace,

          a goshawk fallen
              on a mouse.

            
Let me arise,

          a cracked and sparkling cup
              in my body of clay.

From what should I be saved,

          the savage beauty
              of a Spring morning?

My soul was never lost.

          I am a pang of fire
             in the heart of the Mother.

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