The rest of my life spreads
Like a feast on a plate of gold,
Like fruit to be plucked
From a high tree
Climbed diligently –
And not without risk attained.
I hear ancestors
Breathe down my neck
And up my throat
And the past lives pass me on the street
Every day.
There is nothing else for you to be.
And I, yours,
Or future lives,
Depending on the view through your crack.
But the living moment is airproof
and seamless.
And none escape its grasp.
It all boils to the simple fact
That there is no one else here.
Where do the leaves blow but in me?
Where do your eyes lead but us?
We touch with the same touching,
We know with the same mind.
The music of voice is the same soundtrack as my head,
And between my hand and the skin of the chair
There is still just one image, one sense,
And always, underneath all the onenesses ,
Just one taste –
The taste of knowing.
The taste of awareness.
The great substrate of the universe,
The non-stuff that makes all the other stuff,
The light on that’s truly home.
There’s nothing but to simply enjoy the show,
To watch your particular persona unfold,
Your temporary cloth of mind,
And learn about the connection there.
And how to allow it to be exactly
As it is-
A perfect and instant reflection
Of your ideas about it,
About yourself.
As we see beauty, so the truth is revealed.
And adoration of every little detail
Draws to itself its own kind.
The trees sway outside my simple window.
It is everything.
Everything all together.
Everything.
