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Toward Buddhist Thought He had always agreed to meet himself Within a life nailed down tight, a life unchanging, Not to be stretched out like a carpet over a lifetime of years Until it was tired, worn and frayed. But as his once clear, now cloudy eyes Saw less and less, as the two rough onions of his cataracts were growing, Time became much faster, As it slid always away from him, As it unraveled into the dark. And the biggest changes, mostly unwelcome, walked constantly Across every threshold to meet varnished oak floors That he had covered with red and green rugs. The immortal, never ending nature of Mind Had begun to weave together past and present Into a rough textured, oval design: It was the forgotten tenderness of loss. Don W. Boyles 04 March, 2010 |