At the threshold of meditation,

Beneath the hustle for comfort,

Against the anvil of time,

Above pleasure of every sort,

Beside the vagaries of clime,

Lies the pulse of the mind,

As delicate as a budding flower,

Both in beauty and power.

It may transform beyond measure

As the acorn to the oak

And give birth to every cure,

As the mind within becomes woke

And one learns to appreciate its texture.

While the seasons ever turn

And day burns into night,

It seems a worthy insight

To tend such roots,

As every little seed,

Before it blossoms and becomes fruit,

Makes an imprint on our conscious lives,

So can free us from the sorrow

That arises from giving

Too much attention to yesterday or tomorrow.