Counting steps one
is open to chaos.
One’s ankle is sprained
feeding ducks before work.
Then glasses are squashed
during one lame hunt for
the perfect book to wow
a whitewater scholar.
One loose lens is lost
fumbling to fit the other
one back in the frame.
One goes on
amid the free-for-all,
seated with elevated foot.
Change is made there,
carefully handed to lambs
lined up with ones to
pay for beach reading.
“Our family loves coming here
once a year,” says a shepherd.
Counting back coins one
lucky clerk begins to
channel Santa, asks
“do you like math?”
“Not yet,” grins the Lord,
“I’m only in preschool.”
Thus all-one-daddies are
filled with beatitude,
like Buddha’s dimple or
Dr. Bronner’s gut.
One finds a hidden
book and yes one more
look around returns
the missing lens.
Lovely, sir. A poetic slice of zen this sunny morning. In an instant, all is right with the world. Thank you!
I really love this poem.