Thrush

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

Painting by Floy Zitten