No one escapes the miracle
of embodiment,
not even God.
Don't you long to return
to where you are?
When the Teacher says,
you are not your body,
say, I Am.
This moss-green stone is your body,
so ancient it was here
before you were born.
The Milky Way is your body
pouring over the mountains
of the spine.
Stranger, I am your flesh.
Bound by lymph node,
gristle and tear
is a heart that has no edges.
A bee asleep on a withered mum.
Each quark of you a circle
That can't quite nip its tail.
The light that has not yet reached us
is your body.
The fragrance of next Spring's flowers.
Musk of an elk on thistle.
Consider also the dark matter
of dreams.
Your dreams are my bones.
Don't you long to return
to where you are?
No body escapes the miracle,
not even God.
Thoughts won't enlighten you.
The past won't comfort you.
The future won't complete you.
Love happens in this moment,
this breath,
this body.
Photo, Mt. Adams, Outbound Collective
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