One Stone to Samadhi
A poem by Ravi Shankar

One Stone to Samadhi
Ravi Shankar

Back in the room, it’s as if we never left:
A cone of frangipani gradually charring,
And Clair de Lune, overlaid with whale song,

Piping through tweeters in the background,
Plastic folding-chairs filled with disparate frames
In similar postures: back straight, palms open

Upon thighs, eyes closed, muscles relaxed,
The flicker of thought, in principle, sacrificed
To the rising and falling of breath. Still a fleck

Of peripheral self can’t help but remain, temporarily
Unhooked from memory’s flux and grapple,
Yet attendant in some form nonetheless,

A watchfulness impartial to inclination,
Though to speak of it is like pointing a finger
At the moon. Suffice it to say that, eyes closed,

The crest on passing time’s ongoing wave
Perpetually furnishes the mind with vista,
And back in the room, it’s as if we never arrived.