At the threshold of meditation,
Beneath the hustle for comfort,
Against the anvil of time,
Above pleasure of every sort,
Beside the vagaries of clime,
Lies the pulse of the mind,
As delicate as a budding flower,
Both in beauty and power.
It may transform beyond measure
As the acorn to the oak
And give birth to every cure,
As the mind within becomes woke
And one learns to appreciate its texture.
While the seasons ever turn
And day burns into night,
It seems a worthy insight
To tend such roots,
As every little seed,
Before it blossoms and becomes fruit,
Makes an imprint on our conscious lives,
So can free us from the sorrow
That arises from giving
Too much attention to yesterday or tomorrow.
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