The dark red pine wood chips pour ever so slowly into to a
black a tub.
one giant shovelful after another tipped in to fill the tub
to overflowing.
a paisley of burnt sienna, raw umber, of ochre and van dyke
brown,
some bits of straw and dirt round out each heft and turn and
the tub fills
mounded in constant motion, a cascade mesermerizing the eyes.
Seen from above the sifting transplacement is a perfect half
circle back and forth,
a parabola of function and focus, the surroundings blurred, the
voices dulled,
the senses at one, as in prayer, or near to sleep or death,
the emotions dissolved
in action, soft floaty cloud feelings vaporizing into
whispery breezes
all encompassed by the light and weight of the sun, somewhere
else is the world.
No need to ask, no need to look, no need for anything. Can it just stop here?
life as Rube Goldberg?
faith as Mother Tereasa? hope as anything
in precision?
