There is some relevance, some purpose
When the realization comes that the whole rigmorole,
The tangled, some times frenzied, posturing
Is only about sitting still.
The impossible thing – being still.
The midden in the dune hollow,
The waiting gyre on swellcurved air
The hump of basalt, stubborn,
After the mountain has washed away.
The mumbo jumbo, the cackling guru,
The breath from the navel diamond
That lifts the hair and flushes the nerves with light,
The blowing leaves of a thousand books
Are about doing nothing.
The ultimate contradiction
The water and the air are the fish and the bird,
The dull plod is the man.
The endless gravity that drives to do.
The effort of one foot in front of the one left behind.
Walking a meandering circle
In brief memory and/or anticipation of time.
No place for nothing.
The bubbling effervescence of creation,
The scurrying scrabble of the denizens of decomposition,
Crowd the moment.
Some shaman bright eyed with irony
Takes your money and talks of silence.
The ones that smile, that laugh,
Wait for you to wander off in exasperation.
Maybe to sit down, one day, under a hollow hill
And suddenly chuckle
And do nothing.