Why? (2/7/21)

Once again the fireplace has warmed the cabin
gently and surely, even on a cold morning
with snow covering the ground.
The seasons feel long and tiresome.
I go through the motions, but feel no lasting satisfaction.
Is this the fate of all who grow old?
In luxury or poverty, we fade away.
Yet my food is delicious
and a waning moon lights the southern morning sky.
I wash my breakfast dishes and brush my teeth
and take a step into another day.
I have nothing of worth to say so why
do I write these words,
and why do I bother publishing them?
I suppose for the same reason that I breathe in,
then out.

I’ve been processing my life with words
for more than seventy years;
ephemeral symbols inside my head
to which I have looked for answers.
If answers had been contained within these words,
I would have found them by now.
The Tao that can be thought about
is not the Tao I’m looking for.
I’m looking these days in some places
I’ve never looked before.
The vibration of a hand-made drum against my chest;
the sound of a chant echoing cyclically in my ears
and resonating in my bones;
the sight of a waxing new moon over Mt. Eddy in the west
with never a thought of, “what a pretty moon!”
I can’t teach anyone anything any more.
The words are gone.
I’m too busy looking, listening, touching and tasting.