Make Your Own

The fragrance of grace is a gift,
but you must make your own honey.
Listen to the silence inside silence.
This is the music of creation.
Emptiness blossoms,
but if you make the slightest effort
it all becomes philosophy.
Throw away your method.
Let go of concentration
and water your heart with tears.
Pollen condenses on your forehead
whether you breathe in or out.
Lightning flashes up your spine
the moment you confess,
“I don’t know.”
I'm not telling you to do nothing.
I’m telling you to do even less.
Softer than orchids,
your wounds will blossom
when your pistil and stamen kiss
like the sun and moon in your chest.
This bee-hum you hear is your name,
wings that vibrate so quickly
they cannot be seen.
Angels?
Buzzing admirers with sticky feet
who gather around you
to glut themselves
with the nectar pressed out
from the diamond center
of a golden flower.
Now you are a goblet for the wine
of the Goddess Shakti. 

Photo by Aile Shebar