This is the house of Love, which has no bound nor end.


A crested eagle called me to the river
this morning, come to help me craft
my work, which consists simply
in sitting here all day and listening
to the movement of water, in which
no two notes flowing over
the rapids upstream are ever the same.

Every single moment in this symphony
is scintillatingly different and, well,
I’m just dumbfounded to look up
and see so much dancing light
as if it were the dream of these rocks
to draw their rapture on the pulsing surface
while a sapphire dragonfly floats passed,
come to sip her share of wonder with me
and pretend that she, too, is
separate from the sun and stream and
moving sound, stopping her startling blue
between all the other signs of life
still living their small part of our story:

the swallows and the stupid flies;
that bumblebee and this yellow-and-black
ladybug exploring every blade of holy grass
like the gift each really is, gushing its secrets
so the silent wind can also carry some
significant part of the score which makes sure
we come back to what it means
to spend a day with a river,
doing nothing.


The flow of

Being empty