There is a genuflection

that ends at the feet of the master.

But there's another bow

that sinks into the ground,

dissolving the difference

between 'He' and 'I,'

above or below.

This darkness shatters

the forehead with light.

This bending pulls you

through every maelstrom of loss

down to the abysmal wound

of awakening.

This grief is more intimate

than joy.

Death is only the sheath

of a blue and beautiful blade.

You learn to bow like this

from the exquisite gesture

of the moon.

Your Guru is a tree,

an endangered lion,

a dying coral reef,

the sound of the frog

who lives in the geranium pot.

Your Guru is a butterfly wing

settling on a lapis hydrangea.

Your Guru is the muffled mourning

of a daughter for her grandmother's soul.

Why not genuflect to every weed

along the path?

Make it blossom with the comfort

of your mindful gaze.

And wherever you go,

bid "namaste" to everything

that perishes.

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