Tuesday, May 26, 2015

The Empty Mug

Still, silent, I sit, I drink 
the morning coffee till not 
a worldly thing’s left of me.

Peer then into the empty
mug, observing no trace of
a judge, critic, point of view. 

One must be absent for there
to be present the Thou who
sees through one’s very own eye—

Voiding, forever, all things 
at once at one arising,
each interdependently.

No need now to focus much,
no intent to foster such, 
no clutching the still nightlight.

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