Slowly, my practice changed.
I kissed the hem of each new day
and breathed, as gently
as you press a pear to see
if it is ripe, as slowly
as you separate your hand
from the back of a sleeping child.
And I praised this life,
a late-March garden
where new growth stands
on the bones of the old.
… from the poem Barbarous World by Ginny Hoyle
Lynx Thoughts 