I'm growing accustomed to your eyes

I'm growing accustomed to your eyes
and to the fresh surprise of them.
Accustomed to what is not static, yet remains inside of change.
Accustomed to the flow of the River
as it climbs the stem of the Great Lotus
and nourishes its many tongues.

The flowers in your house seem to bloom
over and over,
each time producing unexpected results,
yet there is something I am growing accustomed to expecting: beauty.

Beauty: the wheel that keeps turning, but differently.
Beauty: the way each moment dies
into the next, offering its corpse as refuge.
Beauty: impermanence
uncoupled from numbness.
Impermanence alive.

Impermanence moves your mouth towards mine, 
landing for a moment in the heave of warm breath, 
then away.
Impermanence guides your hand's soft strokes
against the skin of mine where it rests on the table,
then away to lift the kettle, 
and pour tea.

Inside this dancing dream
there is a swathe of color
I call "me."
She chooses blue, sometimes violet, sometimes green.
She chooses fast, sometimes slow,
sometimes so slow you'd think she'd stopped dancing.
She dances with a dogged determination,
with a sort of permanence
she rides
the moving waves.

Permanent like the mountain 
upon whose face
the seasons lay their myriad kisses.
Like the canyon carved by time,
whose grooves,
the veins of a Great Heart,
faithfully bend and flow toward their purpose,
as their purpose,
carrying waters to feed 
the Mouth of God,
in the forms of trees and grasses,
birds and fishes,
and all the creatures who never hesitate,
who never question 
their right to nurse 
from this holy wellspring,
a straightforward receptivity
you and I ease into 
slowly
as we lean toward the current
between us,
and drink.