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more years than I can remember,

until today I just grabbed a vine

and started up. Halfway up

wind and a heavy mist closed in,

and the narrow path tugged at my shirt:

it was hard to get on. The slickery

mud under the moss on the rocks

gave way, and I couldn’t keep going.

So here I stay, under this cinnamon tree,

white clouds for my pillow,

I’ll just take a nap.

For more information on this and other books from Shambhala, please visit www.shambhala.com.