Isn't this is a perfect morning
to bow before your body?
A perfect morning to
touch your foot and say,
"Forgive me, I'm sorry"?
to caress your heart with
a feathered breath,
and love who you already are
instead of who you must become?
Isn't this a perfect morning
to fix yourself a cup of tea
and serve it to your lips?
To wander into your back yard,
pick yourself a sprig
of blossoming plum and
place it in a vase, a jar will do,
and say, "Why thank you, friend"?
When you gaze into
that spindle of pollen,
doesn't it become the whorl
of a trillion suns
just for you?
Isn't this a perfect morning
to honor yourself
so deeply in the stillness
between heartbeats
that you become the sky?
And all your enemies disappear
so quietly, so softly,
because they were never there.
Painting: Bird with Plum Blossom, Zang Ruoai
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