Offering

I gave up world sorrow
for the hidden pain of love.
Now I hear petals weeping,
seeds grieving their lost flowers.
I see mountains gliding home on clouds.
I follow the pilgrimage of a snail
across the hosta leaf.
I gave up charity and pity
to gaze into your face,
where I find everyone.
With a single inhalation
I bind and heal the wounds
of rich and poor.
My temple is the sky,
my altar the garden.
We hold satsang in the wetlands,
the frogs, blackbirds, and I.
The revolution is to breathe.
The radical act is being present.
Taste the wine between your thoughts.
When in doubt, take off your shoes.
Walk barefoot in wet grass at midnight,
un-naming the stars.
It’s not the earth
that makes you suffer, friend,
but your judgments about it.
And surely, the last judgment
is the silence of a white chrysanthemum
bursting under the Autumn moon.
This is the Gospel of Astonishment.


This poem was published on Jan. 16 in 'Braided Way: Faces and Voices of Spiritual Practice.' LINK A version of it also will appear in the new book, 'Fire of Silence.'