Poem: "Washing at the Window"

[ysabetwordsmith]

This poem was inspired and sponsored by talix18.

Washing at the Window

My hands slide through soap and water,
the slick heat scrubbing the dishes clean.
My fingers move without thought,
steady and deliberate; they know their work.
My mind is light and empty as a soap bubble,
the day’s worries washed away like crumbs.

Outside, the birds are flocking to the feeder.
With such tiny, mindless movements
they pick up a seed and peel away the husk,
keeping only the sweet nutmeat inside.
They do this over and over, tirelessly,
until they are full and ready to fly away.

Meditation is the art of being in the moment,
however imperfect, however prosaic.
It is movement without mind,
scrubbing awareness clean,
stripping away the chaff of distraction.

Lives are made up of moments
as days are made up of minutes,
a silk ribbon rolling through a keyhole,
ready to be picked up by a needle
and knotted into tiny embroidered blossoms.

It is not about doing nothing, thinking nothing;
it is about doing what we do yet thinking purely.
It is about twisting time’s ribbon into knots of noticing
as easily as birds twist grass into nests,
as beautifully as soap refracts sunlight into swirls of color.

Chop wood, carry water -
this is old advice.
Wash dishes, watch birds -
this is enlightenment made individual.
Stitch these instants into your memory
and they will sustain you in stillness.