Don't Even Call It Thanksgiving

Non-duality is a poor substitute
for bewilderment.
A holly berry crystal'd in frost,

made of your seeing it.

Threaded on a rosary of miracles,
a photon of light, created now
and now destroyed

in an irrevocable protest
against the tyranny of One.

The sun and moon whirling
because your love makes them crazy.

Rocks ringed in melting snow,
a naked tree full of crows,

the undulating stillness of a heron
reflected in the stream,

and your own brown body
bathing in a tub of foamy pearls,

all ineffable.
Just don't mistake your thoughts
for the world.
Rend the veil of the mind-temple

and gaze into the flaming sanctuary
of silence,

where creatures break their shells,

each standing free of its name.

With no anticipation,
let the Milky Way spill down
your spine, overflowing
the stone cup of your heart,
where emptiness has been waiting
a long long time,
carved from your ancestors' pain.

Don't even call it thanksgiving.
Gratitude is not a practice.
Love is not made.

Published in Braided Way Magazine on Thanksgiving Day 2023