Praise the radiant singularity of a whisker on the leathery cheek of the man who waits in line for soup and shelter.
God is hollower than an atom in the green weed: that's what hallowed means.
Let the whirlwind of seeing spiral deeper into littleness, vippasana, the gesture of an eye, polishing the sacred chaos of edges with perception, a sunbeam surrendering its morning Mass of photons to a petal of unfolding iris.
Satori of the finite, freedom of the bound, delectable glory of the appointed sip of tea, dissolving mind with razor grace in fractal amazement at the calculus of limits in the infinitesimal dot on a lady bug.
Ayn sof tip of lily-stamen, dandylion tattagatta, quidditas of crimson-speckled moth-wing.
Whatness of the merest object bathed in subjectivity, a pixel of sunrise reflected in the finch's eye, singing her ineluctable one note: "now!"
Photo by Peter Shefler
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