Meditation - Jepchumba

The Ever Present Present

He only gets one day at a time,
And that is how he takes each.
Breaking down the years
Into months, weeks, days,
Minutes, and seconds.

The smallest of these parts,
Where made of the now.
But he was never stable enough,
Perched on those spindly
Rotating hands of time.

The moments that clearly
Stood out in the thicket
That time cycled him through,
Were like the smell of rose buds
On thorn pricked bleeding hands.

There was the past behind him
With its changed seasons,
Forgotten with other memories,
And the real reasons why
He remembers what he does.

The days ahead, until arriving,
To him did not exist at all.
As much as the past ceased to,
With every exhale and heart beat
Or blink of his third eye.

He never expected a future,
And marveled everyday anew.
Rising again to experience,
The one thing after another
That propelled him through life.

Mostly he’d sit  in stillness,
Tied into the ever present present,
Between yesterday and tomorrow.
Taking time as it had proportioned
His tiny share of what’s everlasting.

Ria 2016