The grayness, the rain tapping all around tapping, gently, the repetition of the rain
the grayness, all the same, the tapping. A zen monk would smile as he washed
the pots and pans, amidst the grayness the gentle tapping. He would pat the dog
lying sleepy and dry on the ground. He would meditate and breathe in
the cool moist clean air. And he would smile again. The american in me feels
restless and empty. Unable to pull up the boundless youthful energy I no longer
have and dash out into this day of rain overflowing with ideas and hopes
fearless. Change meant moving forward, upward, onward. The energy
boundless joy, the accomplishments to obtain accomplish form produce create.
Just as a simple zen monk, smiling as the kitchen gardens are nourished by the
tapping rains, I need to feel at home in a small world again. We all do I think.
The earth, she might survive then, replies the tapping rain.
She needs to rest the body the pain the breath
She needs to rest.
We might all survive then repeats the tapping rain.
And I need to rest, the pain pleads with me to accept rest.
If we all could accept this something less, undefined emptiness
The earth, she might manage to survive then.