Two flags had dropped when we came home
proving their point of impermanence.
We felt changed when we came home,
a room emptied and the windows cracked –

in no hurry for anywhere.
Hearts kinder
as though judgment had lost it’s teeth
as though everything was ok.

I am between this and that,
relishing the heat on my bare back.
This harbours’ quiet –
that surging shore whose Artic current
lit you up,
drawing heat from cramped joints and conversations.

Nine summer nights
in our dinky double bunk room.
Plastic wrapped mattress, worn carpet tile,
pitch pines below
and the shrine room where the teacher sat.


And now back to wanting that –
the teacher,
the dharma,
the sangha,
taking refuge in all.
Longing for that broken hearted possibility of liberation.

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