Epitaph

A light flows from my center
yet shines from somewhere 
beyond "me."
When I get used to that
radiant blindness,
it seems more like a garden.
Then I hear a flute deep inside
the silence
and yearn to know who lives there,
dancing in the moonlight.
Write this on my tomb, friend:
All he did was wonder.
To enter the wedding
of breathing out and in
I open the gate of emptiness.
If there is a Beloved,
there must be a Lover.
Write this on my tomb, friend:
All he did was wonder
why it takes an Other 
to awaken Oneness.
Grace is not an abstraction
but a living touch 
ignited by a glance, 
an exhalation, a scent 
of rose and evening rain.
The Master may appear 
before you in white robes,
brown face and sandaled toes.
But that is only an occasion
for the Sun and Moon 
to kiss and shimmer
in your own chest.
Write this on my tomb, friend:
His deepest pleasure 
was to drown in the gaze
that spills from your eyes.