Sitting quietly, doing nothing, spring comes and the grass grows by itself.
I would like to make nothing
a verb. I nothing. You nothing.
We nothing. That second person
plural is my favorite conjugation.
Imagine. Both of us nothinging together.
Where? I don’t care. The garden.
The alley. The canyon. The floor.
More nothing. Oh, it’s nothing.
Nothing is sacred, anymore.
And there, on the altar of air
our minds and bodies rest. They unfold
in the hollow, the gaps. Though
when nothing happens, that’s
all I want to talk about. I thrill
at nothing. I love nothing.
Nothing’s perfect. Nothing’s easy.
The grass continues to grow.
Nothing to do. Nothing to say.
Let’s nothing together all day.
Sometimes when I stand on this land
I remember a river runs underneath it.
It’s a secret one wouldn’t know from the soil.
Strolling here midst the western wheat grass,
yellow sweet clover and thick red paintbrush,
the ground feels solid enough. So much
of what happens is secret—not clandestine,
really, but it happens without our knowing.
It’s hard enough to take notice of all
that occurs above the surface, much less
to find time to mine for all that’s unseen.
And so often what we find is unsettling—
like a thin crust of earth with a river beneath
it, rushing and cold, moving through
all that we think that we know.
Today I thrill in miraculous things,
like how five hundred pounds of gala apples
come off of one tree that began as one seed.
Like the star that shines inside the fruit,
like the universe expanding,
and that minds might, too.
Like bread rising thanks to the living yeast.
How an embryo forms in the shadow of the womb
and all that is light comes from darkness.
Breath. Strawberry. Wing. The unlikeliness
of a jellyfish. How one and one
can make fine rhythm.
How sometimes you say what I need to hear.
I wear wings of praise. Here come
bright things. I am right here.
On the rim of dawn
my daughter cries out
and there is not yet
any light. I am not
thinking of the grass
with its vigorous green
nor the salsify in the field
with their fragile white globes
but they surround me,
surround the house,
and some part of me
that is still asleep knows
they are there, assumes their presence,
and does not give it any
attention or thought.
It is not like this with our love.
Even in a stupor at the fuzzy edge
of sleep, you come to mind,
and I lean into the inner glow
of mmm as I walk the dark halls
to the room where the girl
is already standing with her arms
upraised. Later, when morning
has lowered her bight hem into the yard
I will admire how the light
filters low through late summer leaves
and watch as it scrubs away
whatever seemed gray until
all the world is gold, silver and green,
and on my lips, a hum still sits
and waits for me to sing of the light,
how all night the stars inside
were shining, falling.