Why always ask why
like a petulant child?
Why question what is here:
me with you, you with me?
Why can’t it be that simple?
Do you interrogate sunlight,
question the bubbling water
of the stream, whether it’s
good to drink or splash in?
Do the pigeons wonder if
the branch will hold,
and doesn’t the cat know
I’ll feed her after a kick.
She’ll still stalk a mouse or
sleep in the corner. Why be
afraid of pauses and silences,
the measure of questions,
the span of unfurrowed lands,
the silence of rippleless waters--
you think them cursed?
It’s the very weight of
weightlessness, the gliding
of motion without friction,
the unencumbered
movement, which contains
the allness of the answer.
What set that wound to
bleeding again which sucks
the living faith
out of your heart?
2005