Flowers and Dust

In the heart of each and every being
there seems an ache, a poignant longing,
like the thirsty yearning of all flowers
for the showering grace of rain.
 
This primal birth-cry of original desire
calls formlessness to form in the shape
of every blossom that opens to receive
itself as the very water of life itself.
 
That streaming life that powers
all blooming and becoming, flowers
in and through us, granting each of us
the mysterious ability to appear, disappear,
and re-appear again as its infinite expressions.
 
The destiny of flowers is a destiny of dust,
and yet, the miracle of dust is such that it can rise
to know itself as both the wistfulness of evanescence
and the truth of what remains unchanged, giving birth
to blossoms from that same dust they’ll dissolve in,
as season follows season in ceaseless cycles
of life, death, and change.
 
Across the land
rain falls where it will,
dryness morphs to fertility,
hard crust dampens into silt,
abandons itself to flowing water,
watery beings appear as tiny bubbles,
then vanish downstream, and so it goes
on the watery wheel in the rightness of rain –
 
“Regard it all as a drop of dew”
would also do, a well-told tale
that really isn’t new to the wise
with eyes that see flowers and dust
and make no permanent distinction.
 
In the minds of the so inclined,
Nirvana means “extinction”.
 
Yet in the heart
where all flowers start —
that heart with no beginning –
even the mind is released at last
to a love that’s never-ending.

 

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