We don't create this world of laughter and weeping.It's poured into our cup at the wedding.We're not the center of creation:
we're the tilt and wobble that makesthe spinning finally come to rest.No heart beats itself: something else
whips us like cream into this sweetnessand dollops a little of us onto everything.Don't be a guest, be the feast.
The host will fill your cup again and again.He’ll whisper your name and remind youof that summer nightwhen you couldn't tell the differencebetween moonbeams and your fingers,bees and pollen.
You were planted then: you burst open now.The sign of recognition
is falling inward from a great height,
and never reachingthe bottom of the grail.
(A poem from my first book, 'Wounded Bud.')