Counting breath instead of minutes,
air flows infinite
as you sit in it
adjusting mind to spirit.
Epics-to-be sling hooks of hope
at mind's great tapestry;
the feeble weave of consciousness
unravels, sends its threads into cosmos.
Currents electric like Northern Lights
carry crackle of deep-night sparkle,
the bright cackal of glee in silent dark peace:
it isn't me, I'm all, empty.