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