Milkweed

 

“There is strength in gentleness, gentler, gentler, so gentle it hardly has any substance, the breath of Silence. Then it is infinitely powerful, infinitely creative.”  ~Maharishi Mahesh Yogi

That path is best whose first breath
is nectar gushing from a broken stem,
odorless yet savory, the taste of yearning,

the river of amazement that wakes
the world, whirling earth and stars like

milkweed over a bee-wildered meadow.

First breath, best way, and all the path
I will ever need. Famished, Springtime
wanders into my body, where I hear

the sound of melting snow, the brush of
restless twigs, wings, wind-chime plum
buds, scratch of cocoons from within.

Midnight now, the empty bell a chalice
of silences. This is when the Goddess
comes, nearly naked, draped in the golden

veil of my inhalation. Gently, more
gently, using the flower-motion of stillness
to polish my heart, I pay attention

to tiny things, least creatures bursting
with wild sweetness, because that
is what happened to me.