This Bow Pulls You Down

The deepest bow is not the bow
that ends at the Master's feet,
but the bow that created you.
This bow pulls you down
through maelstroms of loss
into the grievous wound of awakening,
more intimate than joy,
where death is the sheath
of a blue and beautiful blade.
Inside the ground,
there is groundlessness.
Bury your forehead there.
The beloved's form spills
out of perfect emptiness.
Become the exquisite gesture
of the new moon,
that unspoken gratitude
for a nameless generosity.
You can be sure that your Master
is a tree, an endangered panther,
a dying coral reef, the raven's cry.
Your Guru is a butterfly wing,
the muffled mourning of a girl
for her grandmother's soul.
Why not genuflect to dandelions
until your path ends wherever you are?
Make the smallest creature blossom
with the comfort of your
unwavering attention.
The pure self has no name.
Your hollow places are full of light.
Don't take a breath, receive it.
The answer is the silence where
no question arises.
Be what ripens on a jagged branch,
still hard and bitter.
When you grow soft and sweet,
a doe will nuzzle you and you will fall.
Her fawn will crush you on its tongue.
Now be the burgundy pulp of a glistening heart.
Drop even deeper into green meditation.
Agree to become one atom of a plum.

Collage by Rashani Réa