The Shift

The Shift is not a happening

in time.

It is not something
you need to wait for.

The Shift is a blessed and
perpetual fall 

from the chatter in your brain
to heart hollowed quietness.
From the abstract to the local,
the swollen repose

of a snow-bound crocus,
racket of flycatchers

over thawing bog water,
improbable worlds of pearl

condensed in the ordinary,
like the sweat of sweetness on a plum.
The Shift could be the fondle
of your own breath

kindling a flame of Presence
through the gray mirage of regret

in your abdomen, 

or the awakened caress
of moist burnt umber soil
on your barefoot soles.

Now why don’t you
soften your belly and shift 
into the place where you 

already are,

effervescing in your 

only certain warmth,
the body.

 

Photo: Western skunk cabbage from Bluebrightly, 'Signs of Spring in the Pacific Northwest'