are wilted reflections on twigs of confusion.
The gardener doesn't rush from leaf to leaf
trying to revive this tree.
She quietly waters the root.
The wise waste no time blaming shadows.
Though appearing to be fools,
they plunge naked into the sun.
The stream you pour on the rose is this breath,
the seed is in your chest.
As for the radiant pearl of the full moon, dear,
it glows from your forehead.
Atoms get strung together on rays of the soul.
your splendor fills every dust mote with compassion.
When a wild dark fragrance fills your ribcage
as if a many-antlered bugling elk walks through you,
know that the world is green and whole again
because you are awake.
Swell into edible berries
on your luscious invisible vines.
You will lack no miracle, nor take
more sacraments than you require.
Every species on earth will discover its abundance
when you droop like an orchard laden with hearts
falling, splitting open to the core, suddenly filling
up with voracious bees.
So our spirit field ripens in the heat of crickety silence
as we bear round nectar-laden selves.
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