The secret of meditation
could not be hidden.
A seamless lineage of gurus,
rank upon rank of warrior monks,
infallible succession
of a hundred popes,
a thousand dalai lamas,
could not keep it.
Distant ashrams,
hidden mountain caves
could not contain it.
The secret of meditation
could not be
obscured by
esoteric doctrines
in languages extinct,
advanced initiations
whispered in the shrine,
or post-modernist scholars
babbling on about
the deconstruction of God.
The secret of meditation
is out now, revealed
by the breeze's first kiss,
the indiscretion of a tree frog,
the vanishing mist
of a golden morning.
Unveiled by the scent of rain
on hay grass,
the silent explosion
of a purple crocus.
Given away by the gaze
of a baby in a shopping cart
as you stand in line
at the drug store.
Wander the edge of any meadow,
behold the hidden face
of a god unknown
in the wild forget-me-not,
tiny as a fingertip,
blue as the riot of sky.
Ancient lips were sealed.
Their spell needed breaking.
Now ineffable silence
overflows.
The singing begins.
Photo by my amazing friend, Kristy Thompson
No comments:
Post a Comment