Yoga Poem by Michael Galvin

To perishing filaments:
the beginning
is the destination,
the unrecorded Spring,
love-lit,
here,
these lanterns in the hills!

Broken daynight speaking
ceaselessly of love,
morning constantly evolving
liberation and forgivenesses
observing your delay,
your cavalry streaming
over the hill,
your iron
age of steam and bullet
caught inside your
innocent skin,
dead theory's trespasses
against defenselessness
you no longer need defend!

Beyond generous
is the meditation for which you
meditated. Here,

now,

the witness and the word
enter the garden
from the inside.