How Humbly She Refuses

How humbly She refuses
any worship
but the rites of morning dew
in the Temple of Dissolving.
What your tear is to the sunbeam
and your last breath to the sky,
that is how she cups the earth
to catch a falling feather,
or polish a pebble in a mountain stream.
From the core of a hydrogen atom
She bubbles up circumferences
of wonder, expanding
into wombs and galaxies.
In return, she only asks that you
condense your astonishment
into a river that bathes every creature
in immaculate kindness.
This is all her work: turning things
into just what they are.
Are you not a lightning bolt?
Have you not poured down
like dandelion wine
since the "Hu" sound of creation?
You can still feel her hum
between your eyebrows
if you rest there without trying.
You can still hear her colossal O!
ringing in your belly, the first
word of every prayer.
And because you are awake,
you can behold the final revelation
in whatever arises this moment.
Now it is gone, and the very
disappearance is blessedness.
There is no other freedom.


Painting by Anne-Marie Zilberman