Churn

 

She who churned the darkness into galaxies

has entered my chest.

Let it never again be said, "I am not this body."

Her whisper a river of fire, burning up scriptures,

drowning ancient prayers in the current of a sigh.

The Heart floats like a swan on still waters,

waters of pure awareness, listening

to the strings of her vina, fibers of finest time,

threading ancestors to the unborn.

Grace moves her fingers, the way a midnight breeze

stirs jasmine petals, whose fragrance

arouses unbearable longing.

Why is beauty in such pain

when the world is made of causeless joy?

Selah.

The kiss of awakening

is no ordinary kiss, but a catastrophic flame,

lit by the Eye who sees its own seeing.

What silence does to a warbler’s breast

at the touch of dawn.

The hummingbird murmuring Torah.

The Pleiades entangled in an earthworm.

Music of the Goddess in my marrow-fat.

No need for any Way when Spring arrives

in the garden of my bones.

Kundalini kisses you like this, from inside out,

my parted lips her ocean of unspoken praise.

A tremor of seven caresses on my spine,

sealing my crown with the night that has no opposite.

Let it never again be said, “I am not this body.”

We stand on the far shore, straining for her gaze.

Though formless, She walks on rippled moonbeams,

a path upon the deep, offering her luscious name,

her bija like a basket of figs.

Kali Ma! Kali Ma!

Friend, all that ripens is made of that sound.

Photo by our beloved NW photographer, Neil Dickie