The Gardener Was A Thought Thinking Itself Poem by Mystic Qalandar

I entered the garden.
The sun was not shining;
the light was speaking:
one first word
repeated until every form
remembered its name.

The flowers had opened
their colored beliefs,
each petal a brief answer
to a question older
than the tongue that asks.

They stood together, proud
as separate truths,
forgetting the root they share.
Bees moved through golden mathematics,
carrying pollen like small prayers
from bloom to bloom.

Butterflies wrote and erased
their calligraphy on the page of air.
A red-breasted bird,
a lantern lit in the branches,
sang,
and the song did not end in the tree.

It went on in me,
as if my heart were the place
where the universe came
to hear its own song.
For one clear moment
the garden looked back.

Seer and seen exchanged silence.
Nothing was lost.
Nothing was added.

Multiplicity wore the face of unity;
unity looked out through multiplicity:
a fly, a bud, a breath,
a heart learning
to be a window, not a wall.

I thought I had entered the garden.
The garden descended into me,
and for a while
I was no stranger
to the light I could not hold.

— MyKoul