It’s just a stone’s throw from the birth day to the box.
That precious stone I keep inside my pocket to remind me
that I’m only me (my life a gift) [a vagrant] temporarily.
I was not ‘this’ or ‘that’ or any other thing before my birth.
To say I was would show I had not grasped the nature
of the ego’s time-bound status in a life upon this earth.
The beauty of my certain temporariness (and also yours)
draws streamy flows of joy to think I’m like the sea or hills
which change their windblown nature constantly yet feel
no vain compulsion to preserve themselves at any cost but,
happy to be useful to the vastsome whole of every thing,
they ebb and flow and blend and to the world they’re lost.
I hold that stone within my hand (full knowing I’m alone
and dressed in alabaster clothes) with all my strength
I hurl that stone — it falls into the box named after me,
awaiting undefeated time to set me free. How quickly
comes its echo to my ears — the hollow thud on wood
which signals my removal from the circus and the tears.
© Alan Morrison, 2016