When the undershirt’s worn out,
it’s conformed to its owner and
lost all likeness of itself
then may it be put in the can
and forgotten, to know it’s
run its course and can return.

Let me not grow nostalgic
for things like this I’ve worn,
that have seen all I’ve seen —
or put too much into those
things that will come and go,
whose fabric will lose its shape,
collapse, and be discarded
with other bits of trash from
one small can to another,
to a truck, to a hole,
buried somewhere with bits
of itself still there,
though unseen.

Scottish Highlands, near John O’Groats ferry

Categories: poetry

Tags: buddhism, identity, mid-life crisis, mindfulness poetry, poem, poetry, rebirth, Scottish Highlands, Zen