The Shift is not
an event you have to
wait for.
The Shift is always here,
a blessed fall
from the chatter in your brow
to the quiet
heart hollow,
from abstraction
to locality,
the swollen repose
of a snow-bound crocus,
racket of flycatchers
over thawing bog water,
fondle of your
own breath, kindling
the flame of now
in the gray mirage
of time,
awakening the brown caress
of Presence
effervescing in its
only warmth,
the body.

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