moss-covered limbs break the water's surface, unmoved by the flow.
Unbudged [Haiku]
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among detritus,
an arm breaches the surface:
not waving / not drowning.
The mountain
was so long ago.
Yet, I feel its pulse
throbbing under foot --
into my ever-loving sole.
[You thought I was going to say:
"everlasting soul," didn't you?
Do you think my soles
inconsequential in comparison
to my soul?]
Nothing is firmer or finer
than the point at which
I touch (& know) the earth,
than the point which
presses the real,
and, thus, by which I have
evidence that I live.
[The ghost feels nothing in its soles --
if such a being exists.]
These lowly old soles connect me
to all that is, was, and ever shall be.
A cow is an animal, &
animals are creatures.
So, having strong proclivities
is a cardinal feature.
Calling them "creatures of habit"
must be for a reason.
If creatures did not form habits
the term would lose cohesion.
But I digress, I must admit.
Let me get to my point.
You see, a sloping pasture must
be murder on the joints!
A random beast, who stood this way
& that, would balance out,
but standing each day - just one way -
could cause a hip blowout.
A cow that grazes on a pitch
must have unequal legs.
Maybe, all it would take would be
two tiny pirate pegs.
For wearing pegs on the downslope
side would align the hips,
but then on walks down to the barn
cows would be prone to trips.
For now, there's just one solution:
bovine chiropractors!
Because the cost will be so great,
I'm seeking benefactors.
Waiting.
A space between.
Neither doing,
nor resting.
There's something in waiting
that lies beyond being.
An expectation without promise:
As with Vladimir & Estragon,
waiting on Beckett's Godot, or
the Old Man waiting
at Gao's Bus Stop,
There may not be a payoff.
Whatever it is in "waiting" that
distinguishes it from "being"
or "resting,"
it sucks!
All the excitement of expectation,
nullified by the possibility
that nothing will happen --
nothing good, nothing bad...
just a soul-sucking nothing.