Hitting the clear spot
of breath in stomach and
the hole of my head arching
all the way there open
and forgiving the momentary
imposition of thought continuing
to the smile the tear
the heartbeat lessens
I will grow older with
or without you and you
are a bit of me and
sinking on my stool or
pillow reading a poem
I think of art as a
clear place that the
mind rejuvinates
And I am still
here where the ripple
of attention lets itself
into the movement of that
stillness and pacing the
space between the emergence
of all things and the love
I faulter with therein
