I am sitting on a mossy rock Overlooking a shallow flowing Creek, over which afternoon light Strobes as sun and breeze Play checkers with clouds,

Where I am reading some poems. Going through these sieves of lines And blank spaces around them, I think of intelligence, inherent In everything around me, and

This desire to become a holy fool, For as you said, only fools seem To be happy. Is it because they are Liberated? And would I know what That freedom is if I fall over it?

I set adrift these questions on The water, and get up to go back To my desk where I shall write These thoughts out, after a few More hours of steady work.

Meanwhile time will continue to hold All the answers to all the unasked, And un-askable questions. Meanwhile yellow dust of oak pollen Will cover these poems, and crab apples

Will drop their pink-veined petals Over driveways, into abstract forms. Then perhaps, one day, as I being to Ask you questions, you will point To me a butterfly, white cloaked, on

My shoulder, and perhaps, that day I shall understand all that I must.