Disciples of Mother Mystery

Seeds don’t grow

They merely wait

On ripening trees,

Drying in the husks

Of grasses

Open eyed,

Innocent disciples of

Mother mystery.

Their longing

Is but to fall,

And deeper still.

First on the earth,

Then in —

As if to join

The silent hum

Ringing through

The hallways of the earth

They keep falling

Into their own

Perfectly

Soundless

Core

Before a seed

Finds its quickening

It has to disappear.

Tonight,

As you let your body rest

See if you can

Say yes to

Disappearing,

For even if you

Never wake

What’s already

Whole in you

Will reemerge as

Dawning light.