Roundness


Don't look for any center.

Be the roundness in whatever spins.

Your sit-bone saddled in

the space between the worlds.

A pebble honed by eons of water,

the way your embryo was shaped

by swirling desire.

Or the design of the nest

in the mind of the song thrush

even before the sky gets curved

into tiny blue eggs

because the pull of a proton 

reins in its star.

The roundness of grapes 

ripening into gold.

Or a withered dandelion with

nothing left to give,

dispersing herself in useless beauty,

inspiring galaxies.

A new moon's hollow

storing up the ocean's pulse.

Those distant rims of emptiness, 

spilling midnight effervescence.

Your passion exerting  

a circumference of yearning 

from your belly to the horizon,

causing every breath to rise

and set like the sun.

Now notice the implicit prayer bead

haloing every stranger.

Claim that as your tear.

Don't look for any center.

Rest in a Being that has no opposite.



Photo by my dear friend Kristy Thompson

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