Not the same old way
not rote for the morning
each morning
every morning.
No longer a script
for playing the native.
Waking to beginner’s mind.
The child
sand-painting himself
into my eyes yesterday
is changed by a day
billowed out by moments
blown flowing past,
reshaping his face.
The todaychild hovers in the nearground
surrounded by nothing older
than the light splashing across his face:
eight minutes from Sun to Earth.
Gradually rinsing off the reflected and refracted
illusions of yesterday.
He swims into the eddied now
that pools about
his personal timespace,
continually
draining into the past
and refreshing.
Unknotted,
unspiralled time.
Curving outward
to new moments.
Not trying vainly
safely
comfortably
to recycle old
paths and patterns.
Each moment graced and virginal.
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