This small cubicle of
Has such a fine connection to itself.
A controlled explosion,
A roiling surface of uncertainty.
I direct attention.
From where does this come?
There is no, “where”.
It is not to be found.
Within the small cubicle of earth, water, air, fire
There is only this moment,
And it calls out for change from the sidewalk.
The self of a thousand voices that urge you on.
There is nothing to do be done, no doing, without being.
Unless you eat the fruit of your own misgivings hanging on the vines of your flesh,
The birds will take it for their own
And they do not understand how to make wine.
Always the wheels, great and small, are turning.
Most of the time the sound in your ear is simply the grist of the mill upon the breeze.
Should you awake to the sound of your own emptiness,
Don’t turn and run.
Let the rivering of your face with tears water the field of understanding,
For you are a lover at heart.
Beneath the right breast
The lover wanders in subtlety through the garden
Dropping letters from a bag of air
The lover’s flag unfurls in sensitive threads upon the surface of the pool.
Each breath echos in the trees remembering themselves in the Beloved.