In the ordinary of the season,
to notice is to worship.
Musk odor in the hollow of the last pear.
The garden withered to its root,
still amber with warmth,
the tint of collapse, of fallen
happiness well-seated.
Your beaten heart releases the scent
of something rain has unshaped.
Loss tastes more delicious than music.
Your mind stream grows so clear
it reflects the abysmal blue
of its otherness, the sky.
Starting at the edges, all creatures
burn inward toward their center.
Now is the season of understanding
that the soul is the deepest organ
in your body, and it is on fire.
Even your wings are lit by death,
and a mighty empire falls around you
like a brittle leaf.
Listen for the luscious chafe
of silence within silence,
like the murmur of water under snow,
the perishing of a bell.
Let this sound claim you.
God needs no dearer name.
Merely a breath, this whisper
is the seed of a new creation.
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