After all the songs and the hysteria, and all the words we have struggled to find to capture the slippery meaning of our existence, to be mute with wonder might be the aim and the end.
ONE THING AT A TIME
I’m seated on the couch.
So many poems to read,
so many pieces of prose to digest,
so many apps to stick my nose in,
so much of the world
wants my attention.
They can wait.
The view from the window is peaceful.
A light wind is blowing from the west,
stroking the leaves in the immense light.
The trees do not look a day older.
The thrushes are chittering on the boughs –
maybe they’re composing a poem.
My neighbour opens the gate
to walk the dog. From another house
I smell the sweet aroma
of freshly baked bread.
For more than a while,
my mind is filled with
this delicious nothingness.
I continue to keep still;
the antennas inside me
are up and running.
It is a good feeling.
By the way, I think the thrushes
have just finished singing
a very fine poem.