Perpetual Use

I dream I no longer keep
presents for use at a better time.

When the tree bows low
with persimmons, I eat

and am grateful.
When the fig yields sweet

purple fruit, I pick
and am overcome

with their unashamed
tenderness. I no longer feel

sorry for rooms with too many
unread books, the silence

of needles with no mending,
dry buds of tea

waiting to blossom
in the perfect cup of hot water.

The river flecks with foam,
and the sun wears the halo

of centuries. I take
a book in my hand and slide

it under my pillow where it will open
to dream after dream after dream.

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