This Is Not A Poem

 

This is not a poem, just a murmur

whose poor thoughts won't reach

the edge of the page.
I just want you to know,

in the first language of scripture
Spirit and Breath are one word.
Wisdom is Sophia, the soul in
your breathing, and if you are awake,

each exhalation is the Holy Spirit,

the sigh of the Creator in creation.

Goddess Shakti is your inhalation,
who birthed the sun in the beginning
when She danced with the deep green shadow.

And though her womb enfolds

the galaxies, She whirls
inside your body, trickles down

your vertebrae, weaving
awareness into flesh.
Call her the dignity

of what flows without trying,

the wind that awakens at sunset.

honey sweating from a comb.

Call her the delight of Ruu,

the Chi who dwells in your vagus nerve
like the flame on a wick.
What are you made of, really?
It is like finespun cotton fiber
instantly consumed by her golden spark.
Your breathing ignites the stars

on invisible strands of pure attention.

Tend her fire in the temple of your lungs

and you will permeate the earth

like fragrance in a flower.

Become her whisper, "B'ishm'illa."
Honor her by listening to bees.
Their humming is the voice
of the Magdalene.

But you will hear her most beautiful name

in the rising and falling of your chest.
Friend, just swim in this river of amazement.

Let it pour down your hollow places
like wine that is saved for the end of the wedding.

How do I know this?

I am breathed.

 

Painting by Marie Laparco