And what is the body if not God? And what if the chalice is not a receptacle for nectar, but IS the nectar whipped and stiffened, liquid beauty curdled into the beautiful? We are the vessels of our Being, made of ourselves to contain what we Are. The golden rose composed of the light it holds, the pomegranate countless crimson seeds of its own sweetness. A breath throbbing with silence, the silence throbbing with breath. What is a mote of pollen, a distant star, what is dust, what is God if not the body?
Photo: Kristy Thompson
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