Teacher

 
My teacher is a blossoming weed.
My teacher is a withered thistle
dispersed by the breeze on a thousand threads.
My teacher is the motionless explosion
of a rose, a lover in whose moon-gaze I
swoon at midnight, only to feel bereft
in the dim dawn? No, my teacher
is humbler, kinder more inward
than I am to me, visiting the meadow
of my flesh, scattering seed
in my furrows, my nostrils, my belly,
my cracked palm.
The one who makes use of my empty places.
The one who drowns in the ocean
of my wonder, reminding my heart
how we sighed and surged
before the stars were born.
My teacher is the golden breath of grace
who sweeps away the should.
The one whose sign, like a footprint,
is expansion and warmth
in the darkest marrow of my bones.


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