My Cells Sang

You separate this from that,

qualify high from low,

choose close from far.

where were you when you gazed

at the ripened moon tonight?

Tell me about that.

I have bent so low

to the ground

my cells sang with the dirt

that they are.

Heavenly tabernacle.

Blessed bread.

O holy ripened grain!

Listen to the bee.

It hums on each flower of joy and suffering.

I hear it and I know who I really am.

Holy Madness