Out of the Blue
by Meer Singh
The lake is green as glass.
Below the surface,
slime lays over soft beds of rock.
Plants curl through water’s weight.
Even through closed lids, there is an outline.
I mirror. Bubbles collide and drum
back, echoing sound out of nowhere.
Creek, creak,
creek, creak.
The sky scatters,
reaches me
short and blue.
Shunyata:
movement in a clearing,
a field held by hollow roots.
Can I witness
without cement?
Can I touch the jade
without getting wet?
Out of the blue!
I dive into the corner of
my eye and slurp
straight from the lake.
The ground does
not have to be
solid to land.
The center is seedless.
Fibers have blended
past the point of hue.
It is empty here, too.
What could I add?
What could I take?
There is no principle
voice—only sourceless
harmony. I mirror.