Fine gold dust

Have you seen that fine gold dust
on the wings of moths?
Who would have guessed
a worm in solitude
could imagine the magic powder of flight?

So there’s no sense
complaining about your meditation.
Once on that road
you can’t tell what’s going to happen or when.

When prayer stops
and the one who whispered it
dissolves into the Ocean of the Endless One
someone comes from the deep place
to do the work we can’t do while awake.

I see footsteps in that fine gold dust.
The feet of the Holy Mother in contemplation.
The more I follow her the more I’m like that worm
who always dreamt of flying.