MEDITATION
It is almost-spring,
the ground clogged with winter.
I sit and wait.
The cry of geese slices the sky's throat
and the sky bleeds stars.
In the cup of my hands
is my original face:
my sins leached out,
bones empty saharas.
The sun cleaves me
as I watch motes swirl.
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The dearest child I have ever known
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A little person, in years, only twelve,
I breath in,
and with this breath,
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I breath out,
all stress and pain of life,
what is this life?
past,present,
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In a cosmic garden, I hover
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Roused from sleep
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And the sound of the wind
A reminder
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Poetry: Meditation
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