Friday, August 15, 2008

Poem in a book lost and found

The moss grows on the rocks
In the darkest and wettest part
of the wood.
Here there is a place to sit,
Here there is the moment forever
turning over and being the moment.

This is the old soup of creation.
Sometimes it smells bad but that
is just a reminder
that not everything good or true
is so pretty.

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