Mostly what shows up in my day are a set of lackluster characters trapped
in the pages of black and white words the mind has already written about them,
books shelved and gathering dust. But look, how a poem by Maya Stein
can accompany one into meditative silence like a wave that clears
what’s carved in sand. In praise of on the inbreath, on incoming gifts
from the sea chronicling our brokenness and stubborn resilience.
I don’t know on the outbreath, like salt dissolving in trust and returning
to a great ocean of mystery to repeat the holy cycle again.
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