No Metaphor

When the mind sinks
in the heart ocean
there shines an ineffably
soft and luscious glow
that is manna for the body
and bliss for the soul.
Taste the wine.
The fire that mystics speak of
is no metaphor,
nor figure of speech,
but the essence of dark energy,
the sap of thorn and rose,
the juice of the mind
who feels the prick
and tastes the fragrance.
Call it Jesus, Amitabha, Kali Ma.
All the gods have been trampled
like grapes in the press
of your heart.
Their blood has soaked
into the loam.
Names don't matter there.
Just tend your bed of coals
in the forest at night.
Surrender each step
to a small pool of splendor
on the way of shadows.
Follow the warm wordless path
of this breath Om
to a place that was here
before God said,
“Let there be light,”
a place where each electron
bathes in the glory of its origin,
every photon collides
with the darkest particle
of its other self.