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DOING NOTHING

 

I balance

on one foot, then the other,

reaching in for the pebbly berries

suspended on red whips and canes,

a lush clinging. One edge,

I reach in, the hone of a thorn

not unlike the white

of mosquitoes beneath the leaves.

I pick my way in,

as if this discipline

has nothing to do with the moon

which last opened

red, then paled

to the pale of a petal

in a still, black sky.

Slowly, I pick my way in,

skillfully, a means that

has nothing to do with

doing harm

or harvest.

 

For this moment, I forget

the pain that wants to

forget pain, and practice

touching lightly.

I watch my hands learn

their way past each

edge, each horizon,

lightly, touching

until between each berry

there is such space

I no longer have to hold

back, let go, or grasp.

Doing nothing, I

no longer wait for whole

other worlds to break open,

more beautiful than this one

whose wild darkness

stains my fingers,

my mouth, my tongue.

 

Margaret Gibson