Everybody is a spiritual teacher,
a life coach, except me.
They give workshops,
I just mutter to the sun.
They teach you there is
no teacher, and nothing to learn.
No practice, no path,
no lineage, no master.
Just the workshop, $300.
Petals from a wind-blown rose,
they drift in their own
delightful fragrance.
I am the naked stem,
not even green.
The scentless sap
of this breath connects me
to the root,
and the root leads
to a tiny seed.
What a fool I am,
hunkering down
into the brown earth,
naked and groundless.
Devotion in the dark.
I charge no fee
for these murmurings:
Petals blow away.
The root of the Guru remains.
The seed is God.
You are the berry.
Painting: Erica P. Johnson
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