My guru is a blossoming weed.
My guru is a dandelion.
My guru is not the one who teaches me
how to do perfect wheel poses and headstands.
My guru is not the one who juices my spine
with the bliss of shaktipat
for a moment or two of darshan,
nor the one who invites me to a week's vacation
at his pricey ashram.
My guru is not even the Beloved
from whom I drink the wine of bhakti all night,
only to feel bereft in the dim light of day.
My guru is kinder than that.
My guru is the offering in every exhalation.
My guru is the awakening in every breath.
My guru shows me the miracle
of my own awareness,
then dissolves into it.
So ordinary, so ordinary,
my Guru is blossoming weed, a dandelion!