I’m a fool with little need of company.
There’s no one deemed respectable here,
so how could I demand respect?
When recognition only brings busyness,
how could I not love invisibility?
Knowing that mind is the slayer of silence
why would I want “the last word?”
Saturated by streaming aliveness
how could I be lonely?
I cherish the extraordinariness
of ordinary suchness
but few know what that looks like,
so I’ll tell you:
The birds come to my birdbath.
The dogs wag their tails
when I open my door.
My luna-lover beams at me
without reproach or expectation.
My cup runneth over
and the ants make the most of it;
they even cart off my toenail clippings.
When the tide of breath runs out
they will claim every scrap of this body
and have a banquet with the worms.
And their scats will feed the earth;
new grass will grow in the summer,
sap will rise in the trees
and they will exhale my smile.
I will be breathed back
into the fecundity of space.
Just like that.
And that’s enough for me.
Image: Philip Sutton, The Tree, 1958