To the farmer
The field is full of potential for food.
To the child
It is full of potential for play and imagination.
To the artist
It is full of potential for inspiration and creation.
Yet whom does the field belong?
To whom is the field Empty of wanting?
untinged by its changing landscape, inexplicably peace-filled in its containing
empty of relation, desire, untouched by the change of image, time, space
to whom itself shares the likeness of the eternal night, the cosmic womb, the place where stillness is birthed, where the mind says it cannot go, whistling in the dark to keep away from seeing the ground beneath is no longer there and there is only one heart beating and it is not the one thy calls thine own
Who can speak truth
And call anything
Thine own?
Who?