Evolving in Emptiness – a Supermarket Meditation

Screech of sound, it’s music, they say,

turn around and cash, a cart in the way

a steely face, and eyes avert

criminal record, accused, inert,

so sail etheric to the fisherman’s queue

where boats are barren, no ocean air,

just a row about turns, and customer care,

coupons, status and an immortal stew.

Softly, my love, be soft in empty spaces,

be soft, love, be here and now

softly through this body, in traces

of being here, and being allowed

to be here, softly,

leaving no footsteps where we go.

Georgi Y. Johnson