June 5, 2015

From the Dying Star

Sitting outside on a bench
With a bowl of steaming yellow dal,
Drinking in the warm sunlight, my mind
Began streaming back to the past
A few hundred, million, billions years ago,
When the stars exploded
All their guts and longings and light,
To a creative destruction
Giving birth to softly turning moons, and gently flowing rivers
Trembling leaves and our fragile uncertain hearts.

From the dying star comes this tenderness I know very well,
That need to self-destruct for love.

From their scattered flames arises the empty spaces,
The separateness - the thinly dispersed truth.
And on days like this
The familiar fulfilling silence
Oozing in the blood, soaking the body
With a soft glow and
The clear knowing that
There is enough.

{written in May 2015, Mountain View}

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"I want to unfold. Let no place in me hold itself closed, for where I am closed, I am false. I want to stay clear in your sight." --Rilke