Seven Times and Seventy

The breeze gently blows the hairs on my arm
and a sudden raindrop threatens a storm.
Left without an oar, I feel a panic
rising and my breath quickens, so I breathe
deeply and give thanks, arigato, for
the wind and the mountain air, steadiness
of soul, seven times and seventy, still.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

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