Still, silent
you sit
in no rush
to notice a thing
The hush
of spirit
saturates
your sentient soul
Without bid
a red thing
flies to the feeder
just a meter from your gaze
You remain blind to its flesh
but sense a being there
then hear that common song
and the harsh pecking for seed
As the silent sit
comes to an end you notice
leaking through your bones
The Hush That Never Ends
That creeps through creation like
a mother hen with her chicks
penetrating things utterly
That seeps through matter and floods
the mind with loving embrace
a luminous ocean of grace
That lights up night and serves up
food for the soul of all who would
contemplate
