Rain cascading down, the heavens have opened.
Bundled up inside my own memories.
Water rushing, moving through me swiftly.
Tip towing across the surface of breathing.
Pointing towards our own hospitality.

Destined to reach my own underground.
A place where I could let the rain
Soak through my clothes;
Skin; flesh, to these very bones.

Dharma not different than the rain.
Truth soaking through the layers of my own being.
Celebrating its silence and strength
Reaching the marrow of our bones.
All judgments left on the surface.
The outward bathed in calmness.
Inward resting in original nature
The eyes smiling at all things.

The no name teacher comes,
Teaching us to hold nothing.
“Flow is possible” finally in gentle voice.
Yet–resistance, uncertainty – maybe the old small panic.
“I can’t swim, can’t breathe”
Abandoning the possibilities of freedom.
Totally forgetting that the river can’t be stopped.
Just molecules dancing towards infinity.

Deep down, being earnest and loyal,
Opening to this cascade of remembering.
Dharma has touched these bones. . .
Knowing separateness to be untrue.
The gift from these practices; simple trust.
This surrendering and stillness.
Determining its possible to just float;
In the aloneness of one’s own River.

Having been touched by all the small loves.
Knowing you belong to this place.
You open both arms.
Knowing; the smallest entry;
Could give rise to this Great Love,
You know the one that holds everything
And no-thing. . .