Not a Poem but a Practice

This is not a poem but a practice.
The beginning and end of prayer
is to rest in the silence of the heart,
the darkness of night, with all its weightless stars,
reposing on your crown
like a bubble on a feather’s tip,
filled with reflections.
Feel a breath above you entering
the baby's door that never closed.
In your nostrils, the cool of Spring,
clarity without concentration.
Now a drop of honey in the back of your throat,
dispelling sorrow.
Now a braid of cream pouring
from the tilted moon down your body
into the earth's thirsty hollows.
The song of worms echoes in your ribs
among mushroom clusters,
at the center of the apple bud,
the humming bee.
Let there be no loneliness,
neither envy nor regret... Stay here
in the cotyledon of Wonder.
This journey ends in the swollen
green carelessness of death.
Is it not the practice of every blossom?
Is it not the patience of the forest creature
cradling pain in a crescent of fur?
The trust of the seed
in the endosperm of Winter?
Between seasons is a veil: wear it.
A mystic radiance heals the world,
a manner of seeing through tears.
At dawn, mist lingers in the vale of your chest.
Repose for one last kiss of your own heart.
Birth is unending, dying has no name.
Let it greet you with a welcoming gaze,
a great blue heron standing alone
and watching for the waters to stir,
or a doe in the deep woods poised, only
her nostrils moving, while high upon the wind
the red-tailed hawk is gliding, yet at rest,
pure flight in the majesty of stillness.
Now say that it is good, and every
creature very good.
The beginning and end of prayer
to rest in the silence of the heart.
This is not a poem but a practice.