we sitstill on cushions, pillows, or pads.
we hear stomachs grumble, crows call, heaters switch on, heaters switch off, clocks tick, trees grow.
while a soft voice reminds us who we really are our minds romp about the day, or long to curl up on our cushions and sleep.
but we smile at our minds as at children tumbling off a sled or oil dancing in a scorching pan
still we sit one year later none of us quite sure, then, of what is this Sangha.
we still sit relearning who we are when we are not our personalities.
we sit still searching this shore with blinking eyes,
knowing we need a kindred circle to touch this sparkling moment.
- Sally Ann Sims