Eric Bosse

1.

Take off your shoes
& go to the water,

walk the river path
where buds & nubs
shirk off the cloak
of another late snowfall.
Walk to the rock pile

where last Summer’s snakes
hide under layers
of skin-whispers,

shadows of Zero,
cold stones.

Take two stones
in your hands,
clack them together
& stack them again.

This is how rhythm
begins & ends.
Now listen.

Dirt under foot,
green leaves,
blue & white sky:

this moment
is a mountain.
It is all you
will ever need.

2.

It's easy to say
this moment is all
you will need,
but you’ll need more
when the laundry piles
up & the dishes
& the days --

when melon rinds
draw flies into
the air of your
kitchen

& your bedroom smells
of well worn clothes.

When this moment goes,
when the others are long gone,
take off your shoes
& go to the river again.

3.

This river
flows through
the field
at the center
of the universe.

4.

Stand in the weeds
& throw a stone
to the other side,

then sit in half lotus,
head bowed low,
& listen to the water
flow like a cello
through its slow
descending scale.

Ask the river
questions
about a dog
by the side of the road,

or the woman
at the laundromat
who stared the last
time you went,

or the pull that
was not gravity
as you leaned over
the sidewalk
from fourteen storeys up,

or the way your
coffee cup
overflows
and you forget
to listen
to your breath
as you wipe the spill.

Ask the questions
that gather in piles
like laundry
during the time
you’re away from
the river’s edge.

5.

This moment
is not a mountain.
It is only
a river. A river.

THE MOMENT

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