by Roz Weaver

It becomes part of a spiritual practice
to take one’s shoes off,
leave life’s dirt at the door
and find grounding for the body
through soles of the feet
meeting cold, hard floor.
The glue that binds us to the present
whilst infinity shows up to greet my soul.
The source of the indeterminate.
It’s a universal concert
and I’ve got a standing ticket.
The place I go to be everywhere at once
by going nowhere at all.

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