The Supreme Pleasure of Nothingness

Here this morning,
at a cafe table cluttered with the New York Sunday Times,
A Hostess Fruit Pie wrapper 
And the remants of a letter just penned
To a long-gone friend,
I pay my guarded respects
to a warm-and-muggy Sunday
In the Merry Month of May,
With leaves everywhere blushing green
And flowers preparing their tightly folded petals
For a fragrant  walk along the Runway --
A dance of spendor in the grass --
As I sit and write --
To you or anyone else who will listen --
And realize that for one sweet evanescent moment
I can think of nothing that worries --
Nothing that terrifies,

Chilule: The Supreme Pleasure of Nothingness -- Photo by Ross

Nothing that intimidates,
Nothing that disappoints --
Nothing, that is, except 
The Godly Warp and Woof
Of my unpredictable existence
In which I wait for the pendulum to swing
Either upward toward Nirvana 
Or downward toward  the dreaded bowels of Hell --
Resigned to pack up my things,
Suspend the gnashing gears
Of my incessant thinking,
Go off to work
And let Chihule do the talking.


            Ross Bachelder
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