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
plenteous curve.
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 are a gesture of stillness.
Find abundance
of miracles
in the small.



Just now
there is nothing to know
but this inhalation
softly threading the bones,
tossing the soul like a sea stone
through wave-swirled boulder hollows
patiently carving ventricles
left and right, a figure
eight of doubled emptiness,
a sign of the infinite
for the old blood to follow
with its load of sky
down into the crevice
of my heart.

Grain by grain the flesh
is layered on my sandy shoal
of wind and water, salt and sun,
but just as gradually
taken again by the ocean
of breathing... Indeed
there is nothing to know
but endless life passing
through a body.

Photo by Charles Gurche