Can you smell the Void
in an apple blossom?
Emptiness is joy.
But it's fun to take shape
in a sunbeam.
Just for a moment be
Do you have a problem with that?
Give up distinctions.
You are manifest
You can be the creature
Seed, sprout, blossom, fruit,
and seed again.
Yet no 'me' at all,
just a wild becoming.
The bud has no idea
what a petal is.
An apple is born from the grief
of a flower.
Loss is holy.
Let your juices bubble in the sun.
Let the worm appear.
Now all that remains is the hole.
But you need holes
to fill with breath and music.
Dear friend, through all your dying
flows the sweetest sap,
the nectar of eternity
in what perishes.
Call it sorrow.
Call it joy.
Before you were here, voiceless green creatures yearned through bayou water up-shimmering in swamp grass, groping purple stars and urchin mouths kissed coral under flash of butterfly and stained glass moth wing over thistle, over milkweed hovering, humming through valleys of clover to suck the stupefying poppies, flames of saffron, ooze of alpine lilies down mountains under muscular nimbus white in cobalt void, the voices of frigid creeks calling tall ghostly cedars, their arms out-stretched in mossy sleeves above the Indian paintbrush and blue lupine, pascal flowers quietly weeping from their perfect golden wounds of impermanence: now don't you wish your fingers could put back each stem and sap drop that you ever picked?
Silence x Grace - Time = Love.
I derived this equation by applying the science of tears to the field of yearning.
I raised God's name by the power of the Mother and rose into a shining exponential cloud where rocks, bones and prime numbers have no existence in pure space, yet appear as multiples of one.
I factored my thoughts into an empty denominator, by which I divided the tufted titmouse, the fern, the dog turd and diamond, which resulted, marvelously enough,
in a quotient of titmouse, fern, dog turd and diamond, all things remaining just as they are.
Then I stepped naked into a zero-energy mountain brook of melting snow and virtual photons, gurgling over Cartesian coordinates between a curve and its asymptote.
Thus I determined the square root of the void.
I became infinite, not through mantric repetitions of the name of the One, but a hyper-geometric progression of breaths, wings and inconceivable sexual epiphanies in the company of angels,
such that the One ascended into Many, empowered by a logarithm of Negative Zero.
But you would do better to solve this equation by entering the vacuum of your heart, where the answer was written before you were conceived in runes of black fire.
All this information, and more than I could ever write down, was channeled to me from Albert Einstein, who still wanders from star to star pulling his red wagon.