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.
