Kensho

In the basement of a church--
musty, acrid, smelling of ancient trapped air and dust--
rummaging near the bottom of a torn box
branded with the trademark Angel Soft
now filled with unwanted books,
my hands found a battered copy
of the teachings of Zen Buddhism.
A bent book, dog-eared pages
stained rainbow
and penned marginalia in scribbled hand--
testament to the  text's
study, devotion,
love.

And somewhere in the middle,
stuck around page 142,
     I believe,
a faded losing lottery ticket
serving as bookmark.
A last page read.
A last paragraph. Last sentence.
Last word.
The rest forgotten,
or not enough time to finish.
Something like that, anyway.
And so much left undone.

But then, in the center of it all,
marking the place
to someday
maybe
start again,
is hope.