So many words for such a thing so small
it barely leaves a ripple at the shore,
and all its no-so-grand comings and goings
are little noticed after, or before.
So brief an episode is this thing life:
a moment’s breath in an eternal now
that being full, is emptiness itself,
containing neither what nor who nor how.
What good is such a nothing span of time?
What works can be accomplished end to end?
Alone, it has no substance to speak of;
it makes no mark to show that it has been.
And yet without it all we have is words;
just rocks that never grow to become birds.
03 DEC 2024
