So difficult to sit doing nothing
unless enforced by the presence of others.
Alone, I want to be busy every moment.
What makes me uneasy with stillness?
I’m not doing anything!
You are breathing, pumping blood.
Holding down the chair.
No. That word
came from elsewhere than cleverness.
That word is
closer to the bones.
Why do I fear unbusyness?
Is it like death?
Or is it like a tree? Or a rock? Being
Image: Twisted Snow Gums in the mist near Charlottes Pass, Kosciuszko National Park, 14th May 2009. By Jack Heywood. [Public Domain Mark 1.0]
2 comments On Nothing comes
Mike, THANKS FOR SHARING—one of your poems I like the best!
I’m laying here in Kendal’s Care Center following a knee replacement surgery
Yes, Dear One. I’m holding you in wellness and tenderness.
Here’s something I just wrote to a corresponded who was puzzled by the poem:
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