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A mindful measure of “moment”
seeks to be still.
Like a toddler playing freeze tag,
it holds an awkward pose
that in earthly nature,
can be nothing but ephemeral.

Greened copper threads
stretch back and past
with the seduction of rememberance,
while sunset orange winds
fling themselves into potential,
to dream the days after.

Born “movēre” in the Latin,
is it any wonder that this moment
wants to move and travel?
My ego has bought it a neat ticket,
on the fastest train
from here to anywhere.

Sometimes I wonder
at the pretense
of presence in the present.
Surely I could more easily carry
the planets’ coal to Newcastle,
and as yet fetch a pretty price.

I grasp the fortunate iron
that rides like rust in my
monkey mind.
I fumble, then catch a tool.
I return to breath.
I taste the grace in quietude.

Another breath, I drop down,
eyes into the viridescent heart,
which throws the senses wide.
This piece of time chimes bright;
my ribs bend back in a cathedral chord,
that gently resolves to minor.

I breathe and drop again,
vision now cradled below the hips;
pelvis wrapped in red roots.
I melt into the marrow of holding;
this dark, human bowl that curved,
long before the smiles of our mothers’ mother.

Evanescent and eternal,
the “moment” stays,
even as it dreams of flying.
I am reminded, then distracted,
then reminded again
to the patterns of practice.

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