I pay attention to the clouds
the way that one would sit with sages,
silent as discrimination,
unattached to statements.
I understand that information
gathers with a walk along the beach,
warms or cools, clings and oozes
like the sand that fills
the Universe between my toes
then rinses off the way a dream
just comes and goes.

Whether ebb or flow
it tells me what I see
is never all there is.
Another front,
a new formation
waits behind each wind,
beneath the hat the sun is wearing,
behind the turquoise poet’s eyes
that never blurt their observations.

I can find myself
in their reflection
but I don’t ask for likenesses,
no interpretations
that I can’t or won’t release.
I accept the failure of predictions,
untie all my expectations
and stand ready for the rain,
the clearing,
any clarity that hits the rocks,
the short surprise of time
that carries me
as slowly or as swiftly,
as gently or as grudgingly
as I allow myself to go.