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Monday, January 2, 2012

the death of small 1/2/12

I reach into my pockets

of clutter bound memories.

A giant tent covers me.

I am inside the pockets

of my mind,

both right and left.

The scale is mammoth

but some how off kilter.

Flooding memories fill this tent

with a stale exhale of awareness.

Yet all of these experiences

are still radiant heat

from this handling.

I pull out handfuls

of storybook experiences.

I stare at them

and reflect a spectrum

of emotion

that sometimes glitters

but often times ends as flat.

I am touched from then,

for either way they were.

And I am truly tethered

to what I have had in hand.

But I make my hands free

for the now.

I give them mindfulness

as my eyes looking forward.

These hands of the mind,

they renounce

their pocket searching skills.

I follow their gestures willingly.

Feeling for the now

is my touch with life.

Treasures only keepsake gratify

as the past is remembered.

Thus, the death of small,

for there is only one now,

feeling out for me . . .

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