Thrush

The wick inside us
cannot light itself.
Someone bends kindly
to offer the ancient flame.
Neither does earth kindle
her own warm.
The sun was here before us.
Even our space is curved by
a mother's invisible blackness.
Now, just before dawn
a thrush is waiting to feel
your pull, the jasmine breath
of your listening.
Only then does she sing
and it is morning.
The gravity of silence
turns in circles wider
than oneness.
Therefor let your seed
be nourished by the loam
of its own moldering blossom,
your effects and their causes
hopelessly mingled
in the living mud.
Ponder this, friend:
there is no awakening
without otherness.
Love has created us to love.


Painting by Floy Zitten