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On being temporary

and so I see

it is not forever

this body and this soul

neither the blessings

not the luxury of complaint

my glory and my ruin

and everything in between

this present reality

of all I touch and taste and feel and see

to me

more important than the fate of the nations

yet only

a tiny seed

visible, blooming, gone

I watched a man

my father

reading on his favourite chair

through distance and glass

secretly because

I could not enter

(out of love, not estrangement)

that scene too, is temporary

a tiny stitch in a tapestry

as beautiful in part as it is in whole

and so

I will be thankful


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