Fred LaMotte - In the form of this breath

She comes
in the form of this breath.
She dances
as the dawn of awareness
in the fading of sleep.
The dream was never real.
I need no mala beads
to invoke her.
Time itself is a rosary of pearls,
each moment
rounded and gleaming
with eternal unity.
My Guru is her silence,
respiration of the unchangeable.
O breath, what do you
teach me this morning?
Stillness is pulsation,
hollow, full, and hollow.
Corn and wheat,
a withered husk, and finally
a seed,
the ordinary of the seasons
explaining everything
in pigments, flavors,
pungency and musk,
excruciating sweetness,
and what rattles
in the zero of a gourd.
The order
of unsettled weather
is the mother of ceremony,
rain and sun the sisters of the sky,
midnight darkness
merely a cup
for the elixir of stars.
Whatever you suffer
is a womb.
Enter it more deeply,
and be born.
Now your atoms
are wider than galaxies
because the only dimension
is being awake.
Sink into the groundless,
resist nothing,
cling to no self,
and you will know the secret:
the vacuum of space
is not empty.
Each infinitesimal point is
ayin soph, a portal
and a whirling door
to the crystal path that
tangles ever inward.
One sparkle of this wine
that is your flesh
contains all suns,
all heavenly and infernal
destinations.
The void
is like a pomegranate
gushing wet red gems.
When you taste the nectar
of your next inhalation,
you will hunger no more.
Your expiration will be peace
upon this holy confusion.
Only one world exists, child,
the great circle
of our breathing.

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Uradiance