Winter Window

For just one day, try this.
Shift your attention
ever so softly
from victimhood and blame
to thanksgiving.
You'll survive.
The seed is gratitude,
the flower abundance,
not the other way round.
The beginning and end of the path?
Resting the mind in the heart.
Not ascending, but sinking deeper
into who you are.
This body is a miracle of
portals and doors
leading to edgeless amazement.
An ocean of stars in every cell,
the same black hole
at the core of the Milky Way
in the center of each proton,
a dot of magnetic silence, gathering
into one wild holographic flower
the shards and filings of the cosmos.
Everything spins but You.
Say "I Am," but don't ask what
or search for a noun.
Just feel the hum of radiance
between your nipples.
"Am" is the name of that golden sun.
If you like, call it Christ,
Krishna, Kali, or Ruuh,
but these shining syllables
are only mirrors you hold up
in front of your chest.
Gaze into one, let go.
The mist of exhalation disappears
on the Winter window
of your soul.
You become the transparency
you've been praying to.
Let your next breath be
the worship it is.

Photo: This camellia blossom fell from a bush beside my porch, one of the day's ten thousand offerings.