Wu Wei

 

You make honey 
by doing even less
than nothing. 
When you act,
no one honors your stillness.
You listen to the silence
inside silence,
the music of creation. 
Grace is the fragrance
of wu wei, 
the pollen of emptiness. 
Throw away thinking,
let go of concentration.
If you make the slightest effort,
it all becomes philosophy.
Just sink into the valley
beneath your breastbone,
and use this breath the way
your ancestor used 
her hand-carved hoe.
Sap condenses on your forehead
whether you breathe in or out.
The lightning in your spine
hums more softly than orchids. 
With no name but the bee-mad sound
of invisible wings,
your pistil and stamen bend
to kiss without the slightest breeze. 
Only souls that buzz understand this.
They have sticky feet like yours.
The shameless way you glut yourself
on the nectar of stillness,
imbibing the wine of the Goddess
until dawn.
When you wake up, 
all your work is done.
Who did it?
Surely not you!
Others say, “She works too hard.”
Yet all you feel is sacred loss,
a thrill of drowning
in the river of gratitude.