YOGA

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.

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

Doing.

Nothing.

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

Sits.

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

Deep

And do nothing.