Two Little Poems about Nothing .....The song spreads its wings /    and waits for warm air, and wait it must, for in a room /    without echoes we quickly stop our play.....

Zero

Zero,
such a shy performer,
at first hiding behind the no's "n",
you step out onto the clear, open page;

                    0,

inside your tight boundaries lies amazing space,
the mouth of a bottomless well dropping down into
the dark waters of unknown significance,
where absence is not naught and a mere
nothing adds more to the already full.

Cipher of silence, swollen round with fresh beginnings,
of curtains about to open, the choir's first breath... . . .

Origin of origins which comes forever before
the note which can never be played.

No Reply

.....This waiting for that which does not come,
perhaps, will not come.....rings left in-
complete.....

The paper which remains blank after so
many years, turned yellow and dry,
still thirsty for rain;

The book left half-read, whole shelves
full of dust and desire;

The ardent letter which finds no reply,
a hole burnt open in nothing;

.....The song spreads its wings and waits for warm air,
and wait it must, for in a room without echoes
we quickly stop our play.....

(Listen to Two Little Poems about Nothing )




(Photo: Soy Oil Circles on Cold Water Surface; Afternoon sunlight (Click on
image—or the one above—to see its snowy complement.))