It takes no more time
to realize God
than to pluck this blossom
from a twig.
It takes no more effort
than to dip these weary feet
in a mountain stream.
God is the one who is always
already here,
heaping this heartbeat
with weightless treasure.
Some say not a person,
just energy.
But who delights
in its flavor?
Some say the gardener
who meets you at dawn,
calling your true name.
Some say the player
who presses a golden flute
to anointed lips, and smiles,
luring you into a forest
of bewildered melodies.
Yet others say the music flows
from a sepulcher inside
your breastbone,
where a Goddess coils
in serpentine stillness,
your breath her emerald necklace.
All I can tell you is this:
I am a doula for the birth
of ancient silence.
I will never return to pretending.
I have gazed into love's face
and tasted the nectar
that annihilates
the sorrow of seeking.
Photo by dear friend, Aile Shebar
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