The Mystery insists
that everything is a portal
to enlightenment.

Dust mote planets,
mustard seeds,
death itself.

But I am late for the Number 7
and it is raining
and if anything could transform
to my immediate satisfaction,
it would need to be both
the universe and time
or I remain
on this corner
with wet feet
next to a woman
in a pink trenchcoat
waiting for a green light
while the bus passes by
one block ahead.

The woman in the trenchcoat
smiles at me
and I am earning patience
for slow transformations
of workaday grace.

Copyright Kay Winter

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