On Being

Copper bowl

rings once,

struck with wood

to hammer home to heart

everything that is YES.

The Muse is in the kitchen.

There too, quiet now,

the ringing bowl rests;

sleeping keeper

 of ordinary magic.

 The invitation is to dig down,

belly deep to the place

 of truth behind the navel

to hear the shimmering song,

reflecting Infinite Being.

And, poised outside my window

so full of herself,

 the corn moon rises and

the tides are called to dance.


August, 2000


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