we sit
still
on cushions, pillows, or pads.

we hear
stomachs grumble, crows call,
heaters switch on, heaters switch off,
clocks tick, trees grow.

while a soft voice reminds us
who we really are
our minds romp about the day,
or long to curl up
on our cushions
and sleep.

but we smile at our minds
as at children tumbling off a sled
or oil dancing in a scorching pan

still we sit
one year later
none of us quite sure, then, of what is
this Sangha.

we still sit
relearning who we are
when we are not our personalities.

we sit still
searching this shore
with blinking eyes,

knowing
we need a kindred circle
to touch
this sparkling moment.

- Sally Ann Sims