Once again

It is not what we do

but inside

of everything we do.

It is the effortless . . .

inside of effort.

It is formless . . .

but from within.

It is joyless joy.

It is and less.

There is no event

of its composure.

There is no place in time

for its residence.

There is a relationship

in which it can be noticed

but not confined.

That each of us is a conduit

does not imply capture.

Each of us is bound to it

by existence.

We dispense it

even in our dismissal

of its presence.

And when we die,

it is returned

from our limited wellspring

and reconvened

throughout the universe

as is its natural state.

What mighty stylus is spirit,

transmuted into motion,

disguised as form.

Was it . . .

the candle, the wick,

the flame, the heat?

Radiance will never reveal

its method of being,

except by being . . .

once again . . .