The hard work of meditation

It never ends.

The creaking bones
The sigh of the highway
The semaphore of my avian neighbors

The slow arising and falling away
Of breath
And everything else:

None of it ends --
It only begins.

The mind is subdued
Like a frightened mare,
Slowly and with loving reassurance.

Soon, what arises
Bows to me,
i bow to the arising

And then all is enfolded
In the bow of Being
Toward All That Is.

In this way,
i mark the passage of essence
Through the vestibule of
Being human,
Toward the great hall

--Mr. Gobley

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