Chao

Have you noticed

how the impermanence of things

urges us to be present?

Have you noticed

how you savor something a little more,

look a little closer,

feel a little more obligated

to meet a moment fully

when it carries a clear ending?

The stream by my house

flows maybe two or three or four times each year.

Rains come,

and I stand on a rock in its center,

feel the water lap at my toes,

watch it rush and bend out of sight

as it moves toward the ocean miles away.

I love to watch it ripple,

to hear it gushing over rocks

in a passionate tangle,

to feel it offer itself to every centimeter of my skin

as I dip my hand

into its golden tannins.

I savor it, wholesomely with my senses 

and embarrassingly with my iPhone,

taking an unnecessary number of pictures

as though the pixels might offer me a similar experience in the future.

They will not.

It’s April.

School will be out soon.

And I will not return

after the summer months

have offered their warmth.

The impermanence of this part of my life

has always been there,

though never quite so visible.

I find myself savoring the world

a little more

like it is the stream by my house,

like it is the last bite of a meal,

like it is already slipping past me.

And yet, as it slips, 

It is teaching a fabulous lesson: 

to find presence

not just when impermanence looms,

but when things feel infinite.

Because these moments are no less beautiful.