Pluck
It takes no more time to realize God
than to pluck this blossom from a twig.
It takes no more effort to surrender
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.”
Then 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 his anointed lips,
smiling, luring you into a forest
of bewildered
melodies.”
Krishna, the cowherd boy?
Or Kokopelli, with his innocent
perpetual erection?
Yet others say, “The music flows
from a sepulcher under your breastbone
where the serpentine Goddess coils,
your breath her emerald necklace.”
All I can tell you is this:
“I am doula for the birth of ancient silence.
I will never return to pretending
that I know anything.
For I have gazed into love's mirror
and tasted the nectar that annihilates
the sorrow of seeking.”
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