Pluck

It takes no more time
to realize God
than to pluck this blossom
from a branch.
It takes no more effort
to surrender
than to dip these weary feet
in a mountain stream.
For God is the one who is
always already here,
lading the treasures of heaven
on your next inhalation.
Some say not a person,
just energy.
How would they know?
Some say the gardener
who meets you at dawn
and calls your true name.
Some say the player
who presses a golden flute
to lips of anointing, and smiles,
luring you deeper into the forest
with bewildering melodies.
Yet others say this music flows
from a sepulcher inside
your sleeping heart,
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 the mind
that pretends to know.
I have gazed into love's face
and tasted the nectar
that annihilates
the sorrow of seeking.


Photo by my dear friend, Aile Shebar