Dance

 

This is a practice for Sabbath morning, just before dawn. Of course
every morning is the Sabbath. Every breath is Brahmamuhurta,
the breath of dawn. And there really is no spiritual practice. We 
simply let the Spirit practice us. She is the Goddess Sophia, Hochma, 
Kundalini Shakti, and She knows what we need before we even ask.

From the soft spot in your crown
to the syrup-dripping taproot of your spine
runs a nerve in whose hollow
the lightning bolt hums.

Bees feast here, making

honey of your sorrow.

Blue fire incinerates your mind.
How could a thought arise
in the lethal brilliance

of such spaceless singularity?
No reason required.
Kali will guide you.
Your backbone her wand 

of bewilderment

and all these restless creatures, 

sparks expelled
from the burning neuron
at the center of your soul.
Everything out there, inside, 

everything inside, out there.

The wood thrush singing in an elm,

tangle of devil's claw,
sunbeams frozen at this end
into mountain tops.
Vagabond comets, crazy angels
gazing over the edge of entropy
into horizons of derelict light
curved in a morning dewdrop
on a blade of alfalfa.
Words like 'I' and 'Thou,'
scorched by a trembling flame 
of silence, drowned in the 
motionless river of bliss.
Nothing is left but the dance 

of swirling cinders.
When we grasp the enormity 
of the disaster, we know 
that we cannot control
the laughter that creates the world.

Sculpture: The Dancer by Antonio Canova