No Clock
The cat lazes on the big cushioned chair back at the front
window and the evening sun is in the
window and on the wall.
The wall I remember is not the wall that I see.
The shade of light is changed,
and yet I am not seeing one hue wash over another.
There is a small sinking feeling as the day is closing, and as I
watch this sensation another
awareness rises, which is that this sinking will pass, and
it does pass as I am watching and with the changing light.
No thing it seems is permanent.
The cat yawns hugely and soon it is clear
darkness has overtaken the room
though I cannot say exactly when,
and yet it is nonetheless
obvious when it will become no darker.
The room will remain as dark as it is for quite some time,
though very much else will change.
The neighborhood is not quiet,
and it is quite nice when I allow it to be,
when I sit with myself
until the desire to chase something
other than what is arises.
When I am here
the present is eternal.
The present is.
The present is all that is.
It is forever drifting across the landscape of my mind,
and the delusion that precludes all others is that
this landscape would not somehow also drift away.
And so it goes, the world moving in its
endless procession
of everything that is no thing but what is.
