My teacher says Be the ocean, not the wave,
so I am a faulty box of Crayola Crayons,
sixty-four shades of blues and greens
azure to aquamarine, the feathers
of a horny peacock’s tail, fresh cut
crabgrass on the planet Neptune.
My teacher says focus on your breath
and I work the bellows as if blowing out
a blaze instead of coaxing an ember.
In for four, out for four—she paces me
like a trainer, times me with her stopwatch,
tells me there is no I in meditation. There are
two, I think, as the rhythm of my breath
slows and steadies, a tide gently sweeping
out to sea. Seek spaciousness! And I do—
there’s not a boat in sight. I’m like the Minnow
on a three hour cruise, minus Ginger, The Howells,
Gilligan. I become one with my breath, and then two,
three, and four. How many drops of water
in an ocean? Not that it matters, really.
Published in Peninsula Poets, Fall 2021