In a tiny dot
Of twinkling light
A hundred billion stars reside
The moon slides by
Smiling at me
Full and proud
Chest puffed out
A tiny ball of dust and rock
No
Through me
No
No no
She looked into me
Deeply
She looked into me
Into a place
No one had looked before
One sunny Sunday
Death came to my smithy
In his shroud of black
Trailing a shadow, like blood
Spilt on the butcher’s floor
Your time has come.
Said Death
What say you?
I am not ready, Ancient One.
So say they all.
Scrawled there
In pigment
And love
Arcs and lines
A language of hope
And possibility
I do not notice the darkness
In the blink of an eye
Until I turn my attention to it
I cannot know the depth of my being
Until I still the mental chatter
Distracting me from its presence
Evil is, so often
A quality of the namer
Rather than the named
I will be the willow
And not the hammer
I will be the water
And not the rock
Where there is hate
I will love
Where there is greed
I will give
I remind myself
To love and revere every being
Every living thing as if
Each were a god or bodhisattva
No fixed destination
No long-term goal
No yellow brick road
Pix to Words 