On the commuter boat

This night even the moon
can’t sleep on the harbor.
The waves are too busy fighting
to give back any light.

I try to still myself, but
this portal has my reflection
drifting past the bluff, between
the blank sky and restless waves.

I think it must be utterly still
between the stars. No wind,
no water churning, only
the miracle of nothing-there.

And I believe it is quiet
inside, down beneath
the stressful turn and spit of waves.

There too, the light is not visible;
a tender anemone lies
lovingly cupped in the cleft of  a rock;

a warm spring in the water’s floor,
lips forever pursed, whistles
so low you can always almost hear

crystals of life pluming
toward clear air.

(Santosha  is a  Sanskrit word meaning contentment.  It refers to one of the ten ethical practices of classical yoga.)