When you drop the veil of hope and wanting,
you can watch the sun pluck harps of frost
strung between oak leaves.
You can hear the infinitesimal chime of stars
in the sparkling silence of your inhalation.
Call it a moment of grace if you like.
But really, grace is all there is
here on the planet where creatures shatter
into tinier and tinier miracles.
And really it's true, love overflows
the rim of a dust mote.
O mind, expect nothing.
Let the tongue plunge naked into breaking
waves of water cress and huckleberry.
Of course the voice of the tin pot continues
to mutter "More!"
But a fiercer listening within
rises cool and dark from a forgotten well.
One breath bows to another, you
remember how to stand here,
amazed, then how to walk.