In Flux

There is no still point.
Just when you think you are
still
you feel
how everything
is moving

through the watery currents.
Even the shore,
fixed and solid,
is slowly transformed
by the waters.

There is no still point—
only miracles
of movement everywhere—

Those worn out palm fronds
woven into grandmother’s basket
once waved wildly
in warm tropical storms.

That car
churns ancient liquid earth
into speed, noise, atmosphere,

One breath,
a galaxy of molecules
every three seconds.

Pollen flying, uncles dying,
that butterfly
is a dead caterpillar.

At the still point
there is grace and violence—
a fireworks display
with no grand finale.

Everything happening
is grand,
every unique moment
final.

— May 2000