Peeking over the edge
I light a tea candle
before a photograph of the Tomb
adorned with dried Samadhi roses
and assorted other gleaned icons
relevant almost exclusively to me
in a round red shallow, bowl-shaped
votive vase, the flame at once
strong, high, bright; shadows
thrown about the room. I lower
my eyes and gently invite
truth, surrender, Oneness, God
into my prayer chamber.
I raise them again, prepare
to rise upon my muscles.
The flame is low, meek by then,
barely peeking over the edge,
floating humbly, improbably
in the spent fuel of limpid wax.
My room again is dark; vast,
intimate, evidentially divine.
O child of God, to experience the Everything
allow yourself to be reduced to nothing.