I just thought, what the hell, something to see, something to do.
To wait so long.
To plant seeds one by one.
To watch colors crawl up stems,
towards the sun.
You can’t rip the skin off a snake, so wait.
To live a life in slowness and sound.
Built on roots, tunnels deep underground,
I step so gently here.
Economy of mind, where thoughts can’t play.
Slow cooked soup, why it can take all day.
Will convictions settle out this may.
The soul of an artist can fade this way.
|—||Tao Te Ching|
Bugs In a Bowl
Han Shan, that great and crazy, wonder-filled Chinese poet of a thousand years ago, said:
We’re just like bugs in a bowl. All day going around never leaving their bowl.
I say, That’s right! Every day climbing up
the steep sides, sliding back.
Over and over again. Around and around.
Up and back down.
Sit in the bottom of the bowl, head in your hands,
cry, moan, feel sorry for yourself.
Or. Look around. See your fellow bugs.
Say, Hey, how you doin’?
Say, Nice Bowl!
By David Budbill
From Moment to Moment: Poems of a Mountain Recluse