Monday, June 23, 2014


the day is alive with the buzz of bees, wasps, flies,
string trimmers droning in the distance like huge mechanical insects,
from the house, the faint thrum of jazz bass,
and here, in the garden, great leaves held aloft like aerial lily pads, vibrate in the breeze,
a palpable energy runs through everything,
alive in a golden sun-warmed hum,
every morning, i come here, to the garden,
my temple,
with bare feet,
bare head,
bare skin,
to worship in the dust,
and the sun,
every sight and sound and smell is sacred,
the musk of the squash leaves, damp earth, salty skin,
here, i sit quietly, and try to learn to be as humble and miraculous as a bean,
here, in this place, where birth and death feed each other,
and the veils are sometimes lifted in the space of a wing-beat a million times within the hum,
i think of you