in sweet olive twilights of early summer
with the low leaning sun slipping under the western edge
I see the same instant I saw as a child
but where once there was the absence of ego
that allowed me to be the instant
now the same reverberation of being
is soaked in every ache of identity that presumed
on the higher Self in delusion of who was who and why
and yet the the green air under the leaves
glows with the same intensity and the instant
is as always is the only moment in the only Reality
and the little ego me who thought he was his true self atones
but sweetly as if the lifetime of remorse and gratitude
into this twilight as I walk beneath these branches...
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