Last Night 3 AM

Why believe me 

When I hardly believe myself

The truth of repose is diluted
When shared with anyone else

But for each of us alone
Sitting quietly on the mat
The center draws nearer as
The body settles in accord

Until suddenly the spine

Clicks straighter than before
And a golden hue emerges
From the energy restored

Then how deftly spirit slips

Free of its heavy overcoat

Stepping into the warmth

Of this inner tropic where

Now is the hereafter
Shining as if forevermore
And the Golden Light
Waxes and wanes
Across the transom
Of each breath

Writing about meditation seems like a hopeless task.  The truths available to us through meditation may be universal but it is nonetheless also a deeply personal experience that defies capture with the usual assortment of language tricks and games.  So why write about it?  At least for me, it has become an extension of the experience; the poem is part of the meditation process.  It's like second hand smoke or an echo that allows me to savor something of the original experience after the truth in the moment has faded.