Considering the empty plate before me
Considering fullness of all our plates
Considering lack of nourishment there
Considering the Buddha-nature of a plate-maker
Considering the plate-maker creating emptiness
Considering broken plates that can hold nothing
Considering meals un-plated both good and bad
Considering a bowl of seeds
Considering it inedible yet so many meals to come there
Considering space that appears to be full of stars
Considering distances between them that hold next to nothing
Considering the pan my brain sits in
Considering the mind cannot be found there no matter how long you look
Considering an open door with a broken lock
Considering this a joyful damage as the room has emptied of its prisoners
Considering the words filling this page
Considering the silence in which they’ve been written
Considering my voice and its origin from deep caverns within me
Considering how I might never speak again and have no choice in that
Considering Death the great emptier that yet fills the world
Considering an empty place setting at a holiday table filling with presence
Considering hunger for its ample gnawing filling me
Considering a meal that empties the body of its hunger
Considering the empty plate before me
