And still,
when the penny drops,
I’m startled to find
how little there is to know
about our quaint genesis of life,
about our birth-forged resolution in death,
about how little we think we need to know,
engaged for days and weeks and months,
intent on obfuscation,
assumed impervious with the distractions called youth.
As year after year after year
living our silkworm lives
aging continues a hunger for its due,
patient like a feral cat.
Wary that there is never enough.
Yet never never matters.
So questionably we only flirt
with pivotal questions:
like how am I to be seen?
Does water flowing, know it has depth and tides?
Who demands to know (and why)
the degree of wet that makes water moist?
Now, unquestionably close to being inactive,
we’re told (or maybe I’m finally learning):
Penetrate the doubt.
Take comfort that inquiry permits response,
that response enriches inquiry.
and as these days to contemplate,
by default decrease,
I’m yearning for a legacy,
a koan-bred presentiment
that’s thankfully saying:
to be content,
there is no need
to ponder if trees consider
what water means to fish.
And still,
when all is said and done,
there is only a grace of spaciousness,
always a fullness of intimacy.
— Ed Sancious
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