That space

Would you trade nothing for everything?

What is really yours?

Say truth now.

Past and future? Those were never yours.

A chattering mind?

That’s a maybe.

A fear being the wrong idea to others. Of not being anything, ever, forever.

Of futility.

That’s a known thing.

Would you trade your chattering mind for acceptance of futility?

Maybe that’s the bargain of paint on canvas, of blue on black.

Of surging oceans pouncing at last toward an orange sunset-streaked shoreline.

Of purple haze above green forests under gray clouds popped with cadmium yellow light and titanium white edges.

Of nature parts – a squishy heart, a spine and claw, a rabbit’s foot attached to triangle bones – dropped from pine trees hosting hawks and their madly feeding offspring.

Check out the real situation.

Surrounded by similar images of yesterday, you try to make the same sense of it all today.

The songbirds telling the same wake up stories.

The moon tucking down to the west.

The bargain of blue on white.

Of limited alphabets pouring forth semi-thoughts about something much larger than a vocabulary.

Concepts tucked between consonants, like the space from the edge of the setting moon and the beginning of the end of the planet.

Trade the chattering mind for that space.

Float in that area.

Is anyone there?