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Metta
Heaven is not white light
but early morning and bird song,
late afternoon and bird song,
bluest night and frog song;
the farthest point from the city
and wet grass.
Metta
On the window sill sits a sapling -
it might be a pink lady,
it came from one's core -
sprouting green from where no light reaches.
Less than a year ago I found it growing green
hidden from all light.
Yes, growing green where no light reaches.
I put it down into the dark soil
and it rose.
I put it down into the deep dark soil
and it rose.
Oh, soul of mine, you have so much to learn!
This blackness you fear is your friend.
I could be a great soul -
I came from One's core!
Metta
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poetry
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