Excavation
Excavation This that we speak of can never be found by seeking, yet only seekers find it. —Al Bastami, born 804 CE This phrase haunted, lived inside my chest For two years I snugged it close, this koan, reckoned with the felt meaning sensing it held truth but couldn’t tell you why A patient excavation, I breathed it, pondered, but not with thought Lobbed it into the big field Light splintered the kernel inside The tight bud flowered releasing its perfume the aching aroma of love
The excavation of the kernel. Yes. I often introduce writing in workshops as an "archaeology of soul" with the pen as a digging tool. Your poem speaks right to the love waiting for us in our chest.