Stained hands, smoking paper, roll, lick, spark.
Like a waterfall, a calm washes over me,
a dullness in my mind, yet a sharpness of the senses,
lights, sounds, people, explosions of clarity,
time speeding up and slowing down,
alternating in its rhythm.
I inhale again, feeling the harshness in my throat,
yet, a smoothness as I let go the smoke;
with reverence I pass it around,
for one respects that which is given with love,
nature’s heart being generous with its beautiful bounty.
Grass – a word that does this magic herb little justice,
this potent, powerful substance, which gods approved of,
and ascetics use to gain insight,
to escape the trappings of the body;
who are we to refute that which is sacred?
As I ponder all this,
the joint nears its end,
a burning of the lips, it’s almost over;
time is serene,
let’s roll another one.