She is a slight excitation
in the field of unfathomable rest,
the ever so gentle whisper
of a mighty healing wind.
Her singing bowl is your heart
when quietness overflows.
Her wisdom taught God how to play.
Her wings of emptiness make an M
over
the vast Enso of
the Omkar moon.
Like a gander, She knows how to return.
If the breath of the Goddess is here,
the poem flows.
If not, no work can make a poem.
If the breath of the Goddess is here,
the plum ripens.
It falls, and its thud is sweetness.
No amount of work can make a plum.
The present moment is the splendor
at the end of time,
where all pilgrim paths gush
into her pool of healing waters.
The holy turbulence of stillness
washes away every fear.
Viruses of doubt cannot survive
her invisible radiance.
She loosens her bling in the Milky Way.
Magdalene, Laldev, Rabia, Mechthild.
You must bathe in the milk of her name.
Become naked and put on her purity.
your gown is the midnight silence
of deadly wings.
She is the owl.
When you become her Knower,
the distant stars are within you.
They glorify your bones.
The Goddess of September is That
which
makes your body shine.
Photo: plums in my backyard, statue of Demeter
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