A poem from my buddha-mom, Susan

I am striving to be willing
To be flawed perfection…To accept the bells, the drums, the language of rain.                             To accept that it takes the dark clouds, the cold morning, to only briefly, perhaps, become rainbows, sparkling color, when lit by the appearance of the sun, before folding back into darkness. Recycled Beauty.

Written the day after needing to cancel her trip to visit my wife and I due to the pandemic. Crew🧡💙