"It's not a spectator sport!"


Where from this notion
life's after you?

See not with wonder,
the colors of dew?

See not the birds
free in the wind

or the fish in the sea
swimming off the deep end?

No finger is pointing,
from off in the sky,

picking you out
making you cry.

There only exists
a marvelous tune,

swinging and swaying
and dancing the moon.

Just open closed eyes
and YOU see the wind

There's nothing to find,
or reap or transcend.

Just the sounds of the colors
and flight of the bees.

That's where you find laughter
as common as these.