The point of practice is to avoid fooling yourself.
It is not that I am in love.
It’s just that the aspen leaves really do
look like ten thousand suns hung
on the limbs of every tree,
and the air really does smell sweet,
not floral, but a deeper sweetness
that comes as things grow old.
And the wind really does caress
the skin as if it’s a tenderest hand.
And the smile on my face is even wider
inside where no one can see. All
the small mouths on each cell of my body
are praising today—though I am
caught up in the same tangle
of shoulds and to dos and musts
as I was yesterday and the day before.
And I know the leaves will fall. They
are falling even now. It’s not
that I am in love, though that is true.
The day simply is a miracle, opening
like a gate, like a hand, like a mind.