Something Stirring

“Who’s hiding behind the trees?”
—Sohrab Sepehri, ‘In the Meadow’

Something sits within me
Having always been there stirring, even
As a child, when I knew I wasn’t just
A child—when I knew I wasn’t only yet
An adult; this
Thing, this vastness within me—that will be
Labelled much; but to do so
Is a mistake: what        arrogance
To try and touch—look at all the white space——it        tosses
And flows        out        almost
Against me        stirring further
When I get out the way        before birds
Appear or words        it being
That simple        mindless
Unholy with the        names
Of things        being only
Negations        like I have longed
For less of everything. But how is such vastness, though
Unremarkable…        shared?

Out the window
Again: hoverflies, this time? They fly
Around in circles, at best; but I won’t
Pattern them with more        happening
Around them        through them        —as they        move—
Than I can mention. And I only        looked up
Once        to see it all, with some
Mindless        part of me (or is it        nothing?) still longing
To speak of the        vastness—still
Expecting
You to see it        like        myself.
But this
Longing        expecting
Pointing        can only create

A twist        as I try
And know too hard; and I get
In the way        thinking
I could        thinking I am…

While there is still only
Sitting. And out the window.
And white

Space. And something stirring.