Hunter's Moon, 3 A.M.

The journey is over at this end of the rainbow. The colors of the garden all exist in the prism of a hollow seed. The answer is the silence where the question never arises.

The world appears as I appear to myself. This is response ability. Between pistil and stamen, a sweetness; between "I" and "Thou," some kind of pollen so gold and soft it melts all into one, then back into two.

This honey thickens before the flower has even sprouted. Where was it brewed? In my body, where breath kissed breath. Knowing this could bring the bees home.

 

Nothing caused the radiance in my chest. I simply gave up trying to arrive. Now I contain the cosmos like a feather holding up a cloud. Breaths cannot be counted, each inhalation is the last.

 

For the rest of the day, a magical inebriation keeps me unborn. No effort required. The discipline is simply my agreement to be nowhere else. Is there a place called Else?

 

It must be here, at 3 A.M., under the hunter's moon. Dissolving thought, I dissolve vast distances. A clear black mirror, untainted by any image of past or future, I am an ever-expanding stillness, filled with swirling galaxies.

 

Because my mind is dark matter, more subtle than the body, I permeate each proton, each atom of every cell; I pervade the forests and mountains, the space between the stars, the uncreated void beyond them.

 

It must be here, in the dark, where I pulse with the breath of light, here that I meet the true teacher, the one both inside and out, the one who disappears into frog song, blueberries, ragged mist at the edge of the meadow. 

 

 Photo from the Orlando Sentinel