Reading books in the kitchen at night
With the rain falling softly,
In the place where thought began.
Men and women have become instruments
For the playing of time and what is unusual.
Like wind chimes their sound can reach you.
You must listen when the wind dies down,
And there is a light, tinkling sound.
The dark green hands of trees
Will not let us go to sleep.
Rain and thunder from the west
Will not tell us who is best.
Perhaps we hear what
From an unseen porch is
The mind when finally
It arrives at an acceptance of itself.
