The universe is like the circling froth
On a cup of tea; beneath the surface,
Everything is golden clear, deep and warm.
Galaxies, born of a fingertip’s touch,
Or a blowing wind brought down from above,
Spiral into shape, then fizzle and die.
Ripples passing through the liquid fabric,
Spread out, reverberate, and then recede,
Siphoning off the invisible steam.
Somewhere, beneath the mirror,
Deep within the watered herbs,
The answer swims forever.
Drink it in.