Don't imagine that breathing
is something you do
just to stay alive.
Breath has a secret purpose.
As you fall asleep tonight,
honor this inhalation
like a royal guest.
Make a spacious tent of your chest,
for she who ripens the moon
and harvests clustered galaxies
has come to dwell in the wilderness
of your body.
She will make you an oasis for the stars,
kissing your baby’s pate,
the soft spot in your crown,
pouring down your backbone
the Milky Way.
A thread of pure attention
leads you to her moonlit door.
The key is silence, step through.
Follow her rainbow into the void,
where wings of amazement
will carry you from death to death.
If you would awaken the angel
in every breath,
let her newest perfume
intoxicate your heart.
It’s name is "Annihilation."
Enlarged by a memory of stillness,
be led by her scent
to the garden of the unborn,
where she pulls you back to the seed.
Her furrow is the valley
beneath your breastbone,
just above your belly’s rise and fall.
This is the valley of not knowing
and not knowing is the space
of compassion.
Dream softly over the earth,
but do not sleep.
Keep vigil upon feather and fur.
Empty your stem completely.
If you don’t become hollow,
how can you be filled with music?
Painting by Andrew Wyeth
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