She mixes peas, green onions, chopped celery,
spices and herbs into the basmati rice, fries it up,
sprinkles a handful of crispy onions over it —
every mouthful reveals the richness of love,
its warm fullness and humble simplicity.
I don’t want to hear anymore about separation
and oneness, emptiness and experience,
karmic causality or pristine space;
I don’t want to listen to another wasted word
about the famous nondual nothingness;
I don’t care anymore about conditioned concepts,
wisdom systems, intriguing mental fabrications,
or the persistent illusion of individuality.
Friend, whatever you imagine you have to say
about consciousness, wouldn’t silence
be a more elegant option?
Buddhas and gods no longer have a place
here; any talk of enlightenment is a cloud
momentarily obscuring the full moon.
Last night as we slept, the whole sky
was filled with exquisite light.
Outside, there are overgrown blackberry bushes
in need of being cut back; plum, apple, pear,
and apricot trees to be tended; garden beds
to clear and turn over; fallen leaves
to rake and burn.
Maybe I’ll get to them, maybe not.
It’s all grace, inexplicable.
After these many years, finally
I surprise myself:
carelessly gazing straight ahead —