Pie

All my chakras vanished

when I tasted the Self.

Now I'm a rose-apple pie,

too caramelized and sticky

to have a subtle body.

Meditate on my flavor, friend,

all sweet and sour and

cinnamon flesh.

I have no recipe.

This crust was cooked with tears.

Let's savor each other and forget

those esoteric Dharma talks,

those secret books of tantra.

Who knows how the heart gets baked

until it is soft and risen,

but I'm sure it's made

with real butter.

Who knows if there is a higher world

than this one with its

Winter wheat and valiant weeds

still blossoming in my ruined garden.

But I'm perfectly sure

about one thing:

On a honey-golden stamen tip,

the earth is just a pollen speck

in the flower of Now.