Empty Handed

 
 
How many years have I dutifully dragged
this old baggage around, only to find:
my hands have always been empty!
 
Picking fallen leaves from plant beds,
suddenly glancing up — eye to eye
with a hovering hummingbird!
 
Darting away, it leaves no trace.
 
A faint lilt of wind chimes,
even though no wind is stirring.
 
Am I in the world, or the world in me?
Such questions, once so intriguing,
now no longer matter.
 
Nothing to be known or owned,
all efforts are traps of time.
 
Whatever I imagine, how swiftly forgotten.
A boy saw shapes and faces in the sky.
 
I’ll never become what I already am,
a cracked clay statue hints at a smile.
 
There never really was a path,
I haven’t moved a foot.
 
Between the clouds, a bright full moon –
tonight I’ll scribble wordless poems.

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