It isn’t that such dreariness
      Marks our mundane lives;
 For rather in reality
      We merely miss the wonders.

 The far galactic stretches,
      Beyond our little vale,
 Fill us full with holy bliss
      And seem never stale.

 But this, the bread, here before me
      On my plate, though fresh,
 Is gobbled up without a thought
      Now to feed my flesh.

 But in this bread is very life,
      Both at origin and as source,
 And it sustains in me the magic
     Of mind in its course.

 O how it is that I can see!
      This great prior that be!
 That here closer than even thee
      I be but am not “me.”

 I am naught that I might find,
      Neither this nor that – 
 Nothing, not before nor behind,
      Can I to “I” bind.

 This is the first of glories:
      That I now write these words.
 This is the first and best delight
      That reality affords.

 And once you sense the hidden light
      The subtly burns within,
 Abandon dread and boredom hence!
      You’ll be above the din.

Featured image: ‘Hubble deep field,’ by NASA, public domain.

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