We like to speak in metaphors and similes –
each creature possesses a magic language
that can often make things seem to be
something other than they are.
All of us are story tellers,
gathered around the campfire
of our own thoughts and memories
and telling tall tales in the falling rain.
Yes, it all begins with some sweet rain:
every drop a blossoming universe where
the hopes and fears of innumerable beings
swim and merge in unspeakable perfection;
where there is nothing outside of Love’s
transmission to itself, within itself;
where there is ever only this enormity,
perfumed through and through
by the elusive fragrance
of vast emptiness.
In the space between thoughts
all is falling, falling through itself
like a strange beautiful song without words,
not obscured in the dustiness of dry speculations,
wry revelations, or faux epiphanies concocted
in the hidden sanctum of an ebony night.
This way of surrender is not a planned event.
Who plans to fall in love to death?
At first, as always,
it just happens.
Nothing has changed —
no startling transformation,
no alleluia euphony, no soft refrain
in the dripping rain, no praise, no blame,
no leaving wan flowers by its fresh grave.
That cool moist soil is alive with seeds of love,
ready to open into their own, our own, emptiness,
ready to fill the vacancy left by the death of resistance,
the death looming between us and all we thought we were,
the clue to our own undoing — not a blessed thing, not a sorry,
sane, or sometimes thing, not a tender, touched, or terrible thing,
neither this nor that nor even, at last, in the transparent sky, a sigh.