The Long Surrender

My greatest ambition for

self realization

is to be as still

as a stone.

No.

My greatest

ambition

is to be a stone.

At the very minimal,

a tree.

A tall grass?

Moss, leaf, seed,

acorn?

A shell on the beach?

Clay,

in an ancient river bed,

baked by the desert sun.

I do not wish

to be an animal.

If pressed,

I'd take a tree,

though it would not be

my first choice.

The mind is a restless place.

Where does one hide

when one wants to rest?

Chatter, deafening chatter.

Verbal chatter,

hormonal chatter,

muscle chatter,

fear chatter,

dream chatter,

God chatter.

The only chatter

I want to hear

is the cosmic hum.

The primordial song.

AAAAAUUUUMMM

The womb-tune of creation.

Radiating.

Breathing.

The only sound I want to hear

are the saltwater hymns

against the shore.

Waves breaking their bodies

against my sharp edges.

Smoothing me

with each embrace.

If I were a stone,

I would be able to rest

in the dark void

of time.

My existence erupting

from the heat and pressure

in the great belly

of the Earth.

Becoming

a fossilized memory

of a volcano.

A ancient fire

cooled in silence.

I would be strong,

and I would rest.

Until the slow-motion collapse

of certainly would

crumble me

into dust.

The Earth changing her mind.

A mountain

unraveling

grain by grain.

Seeds carried

by the wind

would rest upon me.

Boring their ancestors memory

into

my soft,

fertile nursery.

I would cradle them,

for I am mother.

A heart

carved from

mountain silence.

As quiet as the

bedrock

beneath a forest.