Nonduality

In the spring she lives among the cattle.
In the field, her hands mark the line between
mother and calf, her arms the limit, hers
is whose life this life leaps through, her body
slick with birth, shares in the separation.
When the work is done she leaves through the gate
which is a mirror, glass and blood of what
she knew to know before she was herself.
When I dwell in the ultimate I know
I would know her in any life. Which is
every life. Which is this one. I learn to
sleep there beside the gate, in this wet grass.

When you are my calf I kiss your new face.
When you are my mother I forgive you.