When I am asked how to meditate
There are no words the color of presence
No shapes that look like attention
I can only tell you what my senses tell me
Or how I dread and then savor it
And how little I attend to such reaction
Most of all I love the earned silence
The way it drapes over my shoulders and
Fills the hungry belly of my soul.
The deep delight lives,
not in sweeping thought away,
But in having no attachment to mental litter.
The sit asks little, really. Just to
Do it, please, and be with what arises.
Just to be it, please, and not do what arises.