Curl

Curl up in your own fur
until you feel your true nature
of immortal warmth.

To embody what you already are

may be the deepest prayer.

Beseeching God for strength
confesses weakness.
Making affirmations of abundance
expresses lack.

Asking for health resists dis-ease.
Why not just be sick?
Let the chaos of chameleon grace
have her way with your bones.
Isn't the universe mothered from a void?

Owning your poverty, expand
into the majesty of nothing.

Let your vacuum ripple with wealth.
All you ever wanted is nearer
than the throb of your jugular.

Refuse to change Suchness into Should.
Welcome bending.

Hug your flesh.

Nestled in that sinless crystal of
Original Warmth,
where words return to one
impeccable seed of silence,

these fragile sacraments

tremble from your body, the world.

A thrush egg in a hemlock nest.
A whispering brook of snow-melt
under a dry mountain meadow.
The pale moth of your grandmother's hand
released from your fingers.
All that seems to die,
then greens with nectar again,
all that murmurs and purrs
with uncreated light, emerges 
from what Is.