The Perceiver in me is weary
of old conversations made of concepts
and brilliant insights that fortify or blame;
eyes and ears turn away to the peace
that dwells in cells.
A preference exerts itself:
puppy love, wide-open awareness like vast virgin landscapes,
naïve exploration of the small and ordinary.
The Perceiver ignores the things of the world
to notice the things of the world.
Opinions are boring, problems laughable,
kneejerk reactions so unnecessary.
The story does not want to be told again.
It is exhausted and grey, words will not clump
or rise to be animated,
the puppet has died.
The leaves are turning brown and falling from the elm
early this year,
Their falling brings the Silence,
reminds me of the peace of low light that I crave.
Minimalist.
Economical.
I’m remembering that Presence does it.
I can rest.
I just love,
and that’s the magic carpet
I shall ride out on.