A holiday to celebrate
The end of holiday.
I sit cross legged in the closet
Trying to subdue thoughts
that tumble like laundry.
A work in progress
Thirty minutes, every morning,
Forty years.
Or is it only labor
Watching the clock?
I face the closed door
Of an antique washstand
That holds the ashes
Of two who made me.
Creation or endurance
Their lives and mine,
Headed for now
Or never?

This entry was posted on Friday, September 9th, 2016 and is filed under Buddhism, Poems. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.