Just a little off
My glove’s too tight
Your shoes have an annoying squeak
Sweat trickles down my neck
My shoulders itch
When the parry’s firm, the riposte flails
My attack may open up a door and yet
I miss
and run into the wall
Of your defense
Even the best finish lands a
Quarter inch from the lame
Or sliding underneath
Nights like this
Victory’s no longer parsed in
Bouts, but in a measure of
Compassion for
Myself
Forgiveness for my
Imperfections
Patience for my flaws
The hardest practice yet:
Extending to myself the kindness
That I offer others without thought
No comments:
Post a Comment