On the commuter boat
This night even the moon
can’t sleep on the harbor.
The waves are too busy fighting
to give back any light.
I try to still myself, but
this portal has my reflection
drifting past the bluff, between
the blank sky and restless waves.
I think it must be utterly still
between the stars. No wind,
no water churning, only
the miracle of nothing-there.
And I believe it is quiet
inside, down beneath
the stressful turn and spit of waves.
There too, the light is not visible;
a tender anemone lies
lovingly cupped in the cleft of a rock;
a warm spring in the water’s floor,
lips forever pursed, whistles
so low you can always almost hear
crystals of life pluming
toward clear air.
(Santosha is a Sanskrit word meaning contentment. It refers to one of the ten ethical practices of classical yoga.)
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