Musings About A Sting

Stung by a scorpion.

My finger is numb.

Ice helps but I don’t 

have enough of it.

Nothing to write home about.

Nothing to write a poem about.

Nothing I would recommend.

On the other hand, it’s cooler today.

Pain in the hand, relief another way.

Why can’t it just be always perfect?

Why is it never perfect?

There must be some basic principles 

at play.

Causation must have something to do

with it.

D’ya think?

The relative world, 

all that is and is known,

always changes, 

like an illusion…

like clouds in a storm…

like the ephemeral thoughts one has…

like life goals meeting reality.

Thank you, kind scorpion, for letting 

me see another facet of this living body.

Thank you for your punctuation that

makes me feel the moment in a different way.

Thank you for reminding me that all sentient 

beings are my teachers.

That’s one way to look at it.

Addendum:

I feel the poison in the back of my wrist.

It’s slowly moving up my arm.

Perhaps I’ll update later.

Perhaps I won’t.