I am a waitstaff of awareness,
before meaning demands its presence,
before sensory overload invades.
I am a waitstaff,
busy with silence imposing,
readied but breezy with composure,
a hundred familiar tasks possible
but a wisdom imposing behind them.
the act-out will only measure the pour,
as if sacred had a appropriate behavior.
the enfold always invisibly honoring.
it comes through my empty hands
that disguise themselves as in service.
they part of me as part of you.
I am hand massaged
by the tasks themselves.
they talk story by gesture, touch,
grasp, or carry.
the senses of intake initiates
from rest assured.
the influx pours forth.
response acknowledges
as if in-breath matters.
all movement,
even of the mind and heart matters
and the dance as the mingle,
makes its own music.
the silence becomes a hum.
waitstaff is transformed but ever the same.
experience is all about,
as the quality of receivership.
discovery is,
there as was no beginning
and certainly no end.
waitstaff is an oath taken,
to be in response to
and before the all.
totality has one face,
with many venerable expressions . . .
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