Perhaps I will try one more time
to run away from my dissatisfaction,
despite what the Buddha tells me.
I’d like to linger just a bit longer
at the breakfast table
amid striped pyjamas and cereal crumbs;
replace the broken panes of glass
in the porch and attic windows
to hold back the winter chill —
and leave space for two breaths
instead of one.
I may not be strong enough
for the weight of our tears,
or for end-of-day regrets.
I fear I am not strong enough
for the leaves that keep falling,
for each sun-drenched morning,
or the last whispers of childhood.