The buds in spring open each one distinct from the other.
Each moment opens to us, so unique and never the same,
But we choose sometimes to treat them as one thing.
It is not who I am that rides in on my breath.
Nor is what I possess that rides on the out,
Both of these things are true of me.
It is that in silence between the in and out breath
I am there, complete in that space,
Vacant but lush with possibility.
And that is where I hope to always be.
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