The ear’s conch still holds the ocean entire from last night, that undulation Yosa Buson had so memorialized with his notari, notari of the ever young spring sea. If the blade of the underdark were to prick my skin tonight, only a rill of shadows would flow out. Such is midlife, less crisis than removing clothes that were never a comfortable fit: it has taken me many years to learn to appraise the world above the belly’s horizon, the low chakra that jails us by stroking our baser instincts.
I bow to those who live more simply than I do, to those who take but one and leave two. To those who carry their calmness and serenity with them like a shell, I bow even lower…to listen.
I bow to those who live more simply than I do, to those who take but one and leave two. To those who carry their calmness and serenity with them like a shell, I bow even lower…to listen.
As falling rain
can’t be held by shingles, old friends go their ways
just as water, finding its level,
reflects to each
a different moon.
by Gary LeBel
Cumming, Georgia
2002
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