Oh, how we crave answers
Responses to every shiver of desire-
Sitting still, finding no thing,
As if a falling shadow
The last crow reaches the roost –
Barely half past four.
Returning to the stream
Hoping to bathe in its music –
Clouds massing for rain.
Perhaps its winter’s gift
This lack of words for the world –
Empty pages and the poet.
Weaving our narratives
Into self-sustaining truths and beliefs,
So forgetting wind songs and leaf poems.
In this way we lose the path
Blind to the trees within the trees
And stumble over the rock strewn way.
Just breath, no mind required.
What of the dreams and aspirations
Of the earth itself,
Wherein its murmuring sigh of contentment,
Does it contract at our oncoming footfall?
Oh Beauty desiring to be known
To be placed in the light of awareness
No pushing for the river.
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