III. Repetition

III. Repetition

Every morning

the monk sweeps the same stone path.

Leaves gather again by evening.

Still he returns.

A pianist repeats one passage

until the notes loosen

inside the hands.

A woman lights the same candle

beside the same photograph

for twenty years.

Repetition is not the meaning.

It prepares the ground.

At first

nothing seems different.

Then slowly

attention deepens.

You notice

which thoughts arrive fastest.

Which memories demand applause.

Which fears wear the costume

of certainty.

Reaction slows just enough

for choice to enter.

The kettle hums before boiling.

Birdsong separates into layers.

Your own voice becomes recognizable

even while speaking.

Practice does not transport you elsewhere.

It returns you

more completely

to where you already are.