Kneaded

Every night, Jesus prays to you.
'Let the pain of Mary's womb
be kneaded
into the taste of this bread,
freshly baked in the oven
of your body.'
The Shaman bows at your feet
murmuring, 'You are the best medicine.'
And what does Buddha confess?
'My past lives are as fallen leaves
swept away
by your gentle exhalation.'
Counting beads of memory
will only sabotage the sacrament
of Presence,
defiling your sacred relationship
with the ordinary.
Why feast on your wound
when your nature is healing?
Why worship dreams
in the ancient temple of trauma?
Love's story happens now.
Beauty requires
only one silent breath
of attention.
In your Wintry heart
what cannot die or be born
has tenderly swollen, purple
as the nipple on a naked twig,
the coming plum.