Sunny Morning into Night
Him, the lone surveyor,
His hands tightly clasping
an object of no significant
Why do my hands
wrap so around this,
as though, through holding
this, I may somehow grasp
and grab and have and melt into
its stillness, its calm? I cannot.
This object, this, in hands,
I know not its worth, outside
the monetary (momentary) gain from which
I have given another, and,
yet, I know its worth will, in me,
as I now hold this, steady,
with no means but letting go--
Perhaps, if I allow it to, it will
fall, or perhaps it will stay,
if I am falling.
They, the jester's mimic, aping
in their motion, holding nothing,
that the air about them stills
without a movement, but their feet,
closely wrapped and tight, as their
body's garments cling and appear to be.
What is this? What is your foolish
bout with words, with those you speak
but know not their weight?
You know not either, you.
True, though I know you.
And? Many know me;