This morning,
Like every morning,
I surrender stiff knees to an east-facing mat,
Closed eyes still propolised with sleep,
Bare arms goose-bump quilted
Against the night-touched air,

I still my body,
And notice my breath.

Breath.

Just one word for an eternal battle with gravity,
Life forced into cells
From whence it will plot its escape.

But not today.

And not now.

Now is abiding by my stream of consciousness
Without wading in.

Neither war
Nor worry
Nor warming
Nor waste

Now is simple.

Now is breath.

Bryson Thomas