by Benjamin White.
There is a Zen moment too often lost
In the exhaust at the end of the day
When the body’s dismay must pay the cost
Of being tossed into the tattered fray
Where the way we treat ourselves is mindless
Without the kindness of being aware
And the nothing-there forms a dark blindness
Left timeless in the deepening despair,
But everywhere – by any other name –
Has the same capacity to flower
In the hour to be free and untamed
So the Self can claim a certain power
To devour the stillness, the calm, the mild
By styling the wild and not the bouquet