A return to long-lost form

If poetry is meditation, then shhhh;

let me be quiet for a moment. Breathe in

the stillness; breathe out oneness with all things.


If poetry is shoveling snow with the Buddha,

then forgive me; it has been a decade and a half

since I last picked up the shovel to do my part.


If poetry is confession,

then bless me, Father, for I have sinned;

it has been sixteen years since my last confession.


If poetry is the finger on the fulcrum

of a balance between internality and action,

between listening and performance,

then let this be the movement of my hand.


I have written

I have confessed

I have shoveled

And I am still.