Heir

The heart of stillness
is pulsation.
Globed in quiddity,
we tremble and dissolve
like profligate dewdrops,
heirs of emptiness.
Each particle of sand,
star, breath, snow
is a little black vacuum
overflowing.
We are guests at the feast of loss.
Now ground yourself in one atom
of your left little toe,
as if it were the center
of the Milky Way,
or the axis of a greater whirling,
supreme mudra
of the coming Buddha,
the very form
of sparkling compassion.
Ah, the gesture of falling
into who you already are!
Moths and morning glories
live eternally in one day
because they occupy
their own bodies
completely.

_____

Photo: I found this jewel in the meadow yesterday. The Goddess must have dropped it. I often hear her walking there in the form of falling rain, stark naked, except for her earrings. I'm not giving it back!