|
| | This |
| present moment, |
| smooth |
| as a wooden slab, |
| this |
| immaculate hour, |
| this day |
| pure |
| as a new cup |
| from the past-- |
| no spider web |
| exists-- |
| with our fingers, |
| we caress |
| the present; |
| we cut it |
| according to our magnitude; |
| we guide |
| the unfolding of its blossoms. |
| It is living, |
| alive-- |
| it contains |
| nothing |
| from the unrepairable past, |
| from the lost past, |
| it is our |
| infant, |
| growing at |
| this very moment, adorned with |
| sand, eating from |
| our hands. |
| Grab it. |
| Don't let it slip away. |
| Don't lose it in dreams |
| or words. |
| Clutch it. |
| Tie it, |
| and order it |
| to obey you. |
| Make it a road, |
| a bell, |
| a machine, |
| a kiss, a book, |
| a caress. |
| Take a saw to its delicious |
| wooden |
| perfume. |
| And make a chair; |
| braid its |
| back; |
| test it. |
| Or then, build |
| a staircase! |
| |
| Yes, a |
| staircase. |
| Climb |
| into |
| the present, |
| step |
| by step, |
| press your feet |
| onto the resinous wood |
| of this moment, |
| going up, |
| going up, |
| not very high, |
| just so |
| you repair |
| the leaky roof. |
| Don't go all the way to heaven. |
| Reach |
| for apples, |
| not the clouds. |
| Let them |
| fluff through the sky, |
| skimming passage, |
| into the past. |
| |
| You |
| are |
| your present, |
| your own apple. |
| Pick it from |
| your tree. |
| Raise it |
| in your hand. |
| It's gleaming, |
| rich with stars. |
| Claim it. |
| Take a luxurious bite |
| out of the present, |
| and whistle along the road |
| of your destiny. |
|
|
