Your body is wheat.
The harvest is ready.
Let this breath brush
the hollow of your throat,
your chest and belly,
as a blue moth delights
in the bearded kernel
fattened on its sun gold
curve of plenty.
Settle here, yet do not stay.
Dance, yet do not touch.
Don't even call it
Discover how,
without a name,
without a practice,
you become a gesture of stillness.
Find an abundance
of miracles
in the small.