Secret Purpose

Don't imagine that breathing
is something you do
just to stay alive.
Breath has a secret purpose.
Each inhalation whispers
the most beautiful name
to every cell in your body.
A crystal ladle of exhalation
pours your mind back into the bowl
of silent wanting, where pollinated
words distill into honey.
Now you notice the gossamer veils
over the shy moon,
the glistening pilgrimage of a snail,
the pungent promise of death
in the catacombs of a fallen apple,
how your home floats all night,
netted in spider webs strung
from withered larch twigs, while snug
inside you dream of lost summer.
Dear one, there are
intricate miracles of attention
woven into the muscles that quiver
your ancient heart, each nerve
threaded to a certain ache of sweetness
in the meadow or the woods.
This is not an invitation to understand,
but to celebrate Unknowing
with the wine between your thoughts.
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A version of this poem appears in, 'The Fire of Darkness'