At the summit of the county,
Live oaks like sentries holding bolts
Down the chasm of green holy canyon,
Boxes of bees are piled against the hillside
Like sandbags on inevitable destruction
Of this place of contemplation
For how difficult it is to be quiet
In the chaos, to be the eye, the master
Of the storm, who tries to be as loud
As the silence.
This truth is laid out on a blossoming carpet
Of centuries old design. All of nature
Flows through it like rain, to show the truth
Needs no explanation though
It explains precisely nothing.
The circular kiva, its red curtains
And sunken mandala, the gong,
All remind you there are succulents to plant
Inside the spiral archive of cactus, an act like
Every act every moment one of love for the divine.
At the top, where all the canyons can be seen,
Where you're not allowed to go unless you no longer
Scream or moan how you don't get this,
You don't get that, and yes, you do get that,
But can be stilled inside enough to see it
There's a library, and a teaching room,
A painting of Shiva and her Chariot,
Old windows, old piano, old flagstone
And at the altar, humble offerings,
A humble podium, the picture of a man,
An ascetic in his pleasure, having conquered
His will, ecstatic in the weariness that
Compelled him not to hold on. The unyielding
Disappointment still on his face shows he is not
A man but an idea, of surrender.
