This is not the fruitless kind,
the rearranging of deck chairs
as the ship goes down…
Branches sweep up and over,
leaves reveal their underside,
the whole garden leans, bows,
as if honouring some new truth.
A river will bite
at the bank that bars its way.
Backed up against the wall of itself…
Like mountains
driven up,
eroded,
every day we rise
and fall back down…
In this space
between earth and sky,
the here and almost-not,
what moves you?
What will you come apart for?
A life stripped of riches,
a self swept aside for sameness,
barely holds together…