the honey bees wet ink
Wish for it. Sit still beneath the boughs
of the tree you read about, in books,
mapped out and eulogized in the east.
Let it fill with rain, then snow, water talk,
rivers flow into other rivers with names like
life-blood of god, endless curls of the beloved,
sappy spring rising through branches,
just like water makes pathways through earth,
it should make the body flower with eventual bloom.
You become the tree.
40 days of no fruit.
No color: as from the world
the most incredible saffron sunlight pours
from an a sky so blue you could eat.
But do not touch this. Do not reach out for it.
The beloved tempts you, serenades you with adagios
written for saints. The primal word sets traps for you
as notes from a flute. But do not listen.
Enjoyable figs, juice from the mango,
ruby pomegranite seeds sparkle before you.
You hunger for it but remain still.
Who is she who raises her arms,
thumbs folded over two fingers in mudra,
lightning language of the body sifting through mind,
repeating the mantra at the forehead
so that the heart burst open?
So it could catch fire, and wake all those who sleep
beneath sleeping trees in a forest where
no one knows the answer to the koan
of the sound of a tree falling
where no one is listening.
Remain in posture, breathe, repeat the mantra.
Let it vibrate the point
between the eyebrows.
Earth as my witness, the world went white.
Held back a thousand arrows,
a thousand earthquakes,
a thousand tidal waves,
by the finger of the woman
sitting beneath the tree
resting on earth.
Time and time again, I try to come to you.
But the earth holds on to me here.
I remain still, floating still
in the honey bees wet ink.
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