When the brush dips
and the ink shows,
the end is already known.
The humans love dough
the humans love bread
the humans despise
baking.
And the snowman is forced
to keep a smile
until he melts.
And the church woman
forces a smile
until she can die.
The humans love closing
their eyes,
the humans love to cry
so the sun can
rise.
The humans put on
a convincing
disguise.
The pickle has forgotten
the jar,
the brine illusion
has gone too far.
The humans love babies
hate age,
love anger
hate rage.
While the butterfly in the palm
is dead,
crushed
by the weight of buildings
and muscle.
The humans keep coins
of pride and shame
in their pockets,
celebrate every time
it
flips again.
The humans keep coins
of love and hate
and pretend
that one
is negative.
The humans pluck the weeds
from gardens
by their roots
and toss them
aside.
The weeds that can
nourish the plants
if not for the children
weeping away
the rich soil.
In meditation the humans move
and in their dancing
there is stillness.
The humans are form
the humans are colour,
a perfect harmony
disrupted
by the darkness
acknowledging its lack
of window.
Yet anything can be had by the human
who desires nothing,
anything said by the one
without a tongue.