Two Stanza Enlightenment

I read once that a man said:
breath is the bridge, and
we have been walking it
all our days, all the hours
and minutes, the path to
conscious life, drinking
down the air like lemonade.
It is the trick of the bloom
to reincarnate itself, the seed
in the fruit, made before summer
fades, before Persephone's pomegranate
mistake. Half a world away our mother
in mourning blights the earth in frost,
but when I breathe: the stars burn
brighter-hotter. I keep heroes
in my pockets, like lint.
They wear each others faces,
no wonder I had deja-vu
when you kissed my fingertips.

My heart is like petals to open,
a bodhisattva sunrise, a karmic
interlude with violins, a dharmic
tide, I feel the world like the moon
pulls on skin, sugar on the tongue,
the entire metaphor of creation
wraps neatly into me. A snug and
perfect fit. I can feel the serpent
twist, the spine straighten, the small
swell of breath, and all the courage
to tightrope walk that final bridging
between believing and what I know
is so. To leave the spiral path
and shoot the moon. I feel the sun
on my face before I can even see it.