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In the full moon 
of your Presence
the waters of my heart
become so still
that all the wild
thirsty creatures 

come down at 
evening or just 
before dawn
to drink
from your reflection.

The Void Is Blue

The mind of meditation is the hollow
crystal sky of Madhava's glance.
Breath has found her birthplace.

No coming or going here, no garden
to enter or leave, not a single wandering
peacock or wild aster.

All that remains are intimate blues,
formless as kisses;             
no crown of feathers and pearls,

no jaunty tilted head or eyes
that sparkle with winsome invitations
to nakedness;

no smile of rubies or lips like curled
horizons of dawn and evening
cradling the ovum of silence. 

No thousand-faceted sapphire hangs
from that blushing throat, to grant
all wishes to its gazer;

no gaze, and nothing to wish for;
no flute, no fingers, no ankle bell music;   
no edges, no dance, no sighing in the heart;

no paramour, no Radha, river of yearning
swirling backward toward the burst
of her surrender....

Why all this loss and dissolution
and desolate beauty that knows no other?
Because love has fallen in love.

The name of Shyam has disappeared
into abysmal sweetness.
We have become the sky. 

This song is scribbled in moonlight
on the petal of a white magnolia
floating on a beam of milk that pours

from shadow to reflection, from reflection
to mirror, from mirror to light.
Breath has found her birthplace.

Parham Mill

Doesn't that river
look like it's trying
to go somewhere?
Nope. It's just flowing
into its larger
You are a river.

And look
at that mill turning
its wheel to
catch the river!
Wrong again.
The river going nowhere
turns the water wheel
whose center
feels the turning
as stillness.
Be like Constable, my
favorite English painter,
who observed
unnoticed things,
turning and still,
without destination,
the calla lilies
faintly amethyst, the
woman washing
in the stream,
the beginning
of a rainbow...

Painting: 'Parham Mill,' 1824, by John Constable, 
Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge