The masters’ eyes all twinkle
They see what we’ve overlooked
They’re basting us in blessings
‘Til our samsaric goose is cooked
The Ground of All is in us
Laid out like a holy feast
It percolates through our confusion
Rising surely like a yeast
So scrape the earth and then the bowl
And leave no crumbs behind
Feed this belly ’til it’s empty
And slowly marinate this mind
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Copyright Deborah McGlauflin December 2010. All rights reserved.