No Word

When no Word had been spoken
and mountains were still inside the wind,
when the sky was a breathless blue
not yet gazed from your eye,
the sun not yet exiled from your heart
into this lonely distance,
and the seeds of creation were enfolded
in your golden hug,
who was the Beloved?
What was Love's shape
before the throb of time in the empty
drum of no mind?
Who caressed you when your flesh
was not yet rounded into honeyed cells
to receive it?
Now look: A pollen-scented flame
burning on the stamen of your spine,
your wick of resistance in the fire
of surrender.
And between your nipples a moist
brown furrow to sow with
double rainbows of birth and dying,
those lilies of pain that end all seeking.
Note the clear nectar
which is to look at looking,
through which you see the bottom
of the chalice.
These are signs of what can never
be pointed to,
because miracles only happen
before you notice,
in a place where you already are.
Now wake up drowning in this
joyful hug of the alone.
Be careless as a circle.
Fall into the font
of never having needed
to be forgiven.