Sometimes I wish things could just be,
like those quiet intimate moments between bee and flower,
like a sun-baked hound in the yard of its domicile.
But the restless noise crescendoes,
the racket of thought crashes on the scene and institutes
its chaotic reign.
So, you say, “Pass the tea.”
And we convene
For boredom breeds intrigue,
holding at bay the silence of being.
Or is that the muted echo
For which being is a vessel
Discerned sweetly in repose
Or with sharp-angled ear?
I accept you as lovely
Diversion, as the playing out
Of scales,
Of varied human melody.
We sit,
Held by being,
Carried along by this fragile vessel,
Keeping company.