Not about her but
through her is the eye of the needle,
The thread of worlds move. When
demons are no longer demons. They
become our true angels.
She . . . who plants a garden within my belly,
where I bask in her green. This
ultimate and simplicity.
This “I,” am a true “I”
but also, an eye that sees,
the leaves, a stem, a lotus, a rose, a peony unfolding.
Wide and bright like a radiant seed, a
sapling of no- thing.
To become oneself, out of oneself,
oneself is all things, is
to bless our world, and
to be blessed. To step firmly upon
the ground of unknowing. Immersed,
absorbed in its abundance, shedding
its excess to bring forth ease, this “I”
rests deep in the marrow of her native rhythm.