Don't worry, restless cricket.
Don't worry, dragonfly
who can't get quite still
on your sunlit cattail.
Don't worry, implacable
circling hawk, skittish rabbit,
obsessed politician.
Nor you, sleepless seed,
smoldering all Winter
with desire.
I have surrendered on your behalf.
I have immersed you in the beauty
of this breath.
A bud cannot imagine what a petal is.
The apple was the pain inside a flower.
Neither stamen nor pistil, leaf nor pollen
have any "I" who can say, "I am a rose."
Therefor enjoy your voice, O you
who have been selved!
Your ego is beautiful.
It speaks for those who cannot.
You are the song of a wanderer
heard in a dream.
Let there be no outrage
in the space between your thoughts,
only a well of compassion
healing the darkness around you
for a thousand light-years.
Now listen to the stream
of nectar oozing up your root.
Be a scarlet poppy royally adorned,
dancing in the meadow of your body
with a troubadour whose lips
are parted, but whose name
is never quite spoken.
The time will come when gazing is fire.
When you see beyond the night
and burn away the most intimate veil,
the gossamer difference
between inside and out.
Then the moon is only the moon.
The cricket delights in rubbing its wings.
Your silence outshines singing.
The time of the fallen apple will come,
sweet juices bubbling in the sun.
That was the pain inside the flower.
Now the worm appears.
All that remains is a hole.
Yet we need holes to fill with music.
Dear friend, in all that
vanishes, still,
you can taste the one clear sap.
Call it sorrow. Call it joy.
No comments:
Post a Comment