A child's fingers hastily turns white nobs
On a fire-engine red etch-a-sketch
Scribbling grey lines on a grey background
Tongue stuck out in concentration
Mind not knowing what will come.
While a brown wrinkled monk's hand
Slowly sweeps gently over the surface
Of golden sand, smoothing, never lifting
Or displacing a corn of concern without
Silently celebrating the exhaling of breath.
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