Comparison really is the thief of joy.
Stitch it into a thousand pillows
until it sinks.
Google, “why don’t I ever get awards?”
Kakariki searching for kernels
of wisdom from a fellow pretender.
Yet, just before dinner,
a warm breeze on my cycling thighs,
dirt under my fingernails
and promises of hugs
all mattered more.
Nothing I write is musical
or startling
or critically acclaimed.
I told my son today that meditation is about
learning how to die in peace.
“But what if you have a violent death?
Get in an accident?”
“The piece is in here.” I tapped my head.
Lying, once again.
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