After dusk
but before the sun is completely forgotten,

find the growth that is strangling
the fruit tree.

Split it down its horny middle
with your shaman’s nail;

pulp out the translucent flesh
on your sky finger.

Hold it up
and see the moon, rising, out of round

and pink, through the mess.
Spit twice to the east and wipe your hand

on the moving ground.  Leave nothing,
not even a stain, upon yourself;

see it there before you waiting to be abandoned.
Walk away. Find the nearest spring and wash naked

no matter how cold the source.  This is enough,
you should tell yourself three times.  Enough

to make the fruit tree whole again, to make its seeds
edible and fresh

wherever they eventually fall.  Do not speak of this to anyone!
Let them think it was magic.    Let them live unaware

of how it was: the cry of the tree upon being pierced,
the gross shudder of the earth upon receiving the pulp.

It is enough to live.  Enough that you lived through it.
Enough that the knowledge exists, and that you will remember it.

Whatever
“the good” turns out to be,
I imagine it will be
more of a recovered memory
than a new discovery.

We seek it
everywhere, seek it
in piles of filth, seek it
in a reason for bloodshed,
seek it in the eyes
of those we’ve rejected.

Though sometimes we defend ourselves
into some misdirection, some blurred view
of its nature, we know it somehow
when we see it:  “the good”

is recognizable, a dawning
remembered for its warm presence.
We seek it
knowing it already; duck and cover
before it, ashamed of our long distance
from it, abashed in knowing
it’s never been far,
always near by and always sensed,
if not always
conveniently placed.

When it is time to stop

When it is time to stop
doing
and begin being

When it is mountain time
and you are at the base
and you are at the peak
all at once

When you climb with no exertion
When you are still

When a hawk is in your eye
you see the hawk
and see
from the hawk’s eye how small you seem
from where the hawk is
from where you are

Time to be washed out
Time to blend neutral into
where you are
Perfected camouflage
Transparent instead of
disguised

As you were
before
you were the fragile jumbled man
you are now
It is time for that again
When it is time to begin
When it is time to stop

All the gold of the Old and New Worlds
All the Conquest dreams
All the fever of wars fought for greed

explained then forgotten in this moment
of settling in
ceasing to resist
no longer treating existence
as adversary
as resource
but Source

When it is time to begin to stop
to begin being and stop doing

say it:

Time —
Stop