Voice

Sickle seed in thin wind drifts over bracken,
falls in an arcane hollow where sheep sweated.

Wind and seed, hollow and bracken
are unconcerned with plans or cunning,

they have no concept of a sheep or ancient places
(possibly seeming stubborn to a beetle).

While a wasp could dream of Heaven
the beetle could collect seed and try to think.

My eyes see the seed drift, drop, settle.
My ears hear the wind and the scurrying beetle,

my nose smells the sweet sweat, the bitter wasp venom.
My skin feels the bite of several fierce flies

interrupting my calm meditation on the Nature of Things,
my voice loudly finds an opening and cracks the quiet.