Offering

September now.

I hear petals weeping,

singed with their own fire.
I hear seeds grieving lost goldenrod
and mountains gliding home on clouds.
I still follow the glistening pilgrimage

of that old summer snail

across the hosta leaf.

But I gave up world sorrow
for the hidden pain of love,
gave up charity and pity to gaze

into your face, where I find everyone.
With a single inhalation,

I bind and heal the wounds of

rich and poor, oppressor and victim alike.

My brain is busy with forgiveness.

Heart murmurs of gratitude in

both chambers, the empty one susurrates

“thank you” to the one that pours, 

then offers back the ancient gift 

of grandmother’s blood.

My temple is the ruined garden,
my alter the sky.
We hold satsang in the wetlands,
the frogs, blackbirds, and I.
When in doubt, I take off my shoes

and walk barefoot in wet grass

at midnight, un-naming the stars.

There’s really no other way

to get through this miracle.

It’s not the world that makes us suffer,

friend, but our judgments about it.
And surely, the last judgment
is the silence of a white chrysanthemum
bursting under the Autumn moon.
This is the Gospel of Astonishment.