Wu Wei

 

You make honey 
by doing even less
than nothing. 
When you act, no one honors 
your tranquility, 
the part of you that 
merely listens to the silence 
inside silence, where 
the music of creation comes from. 
Your grace is the fragrance
of wu wei, 
the pollen of emptiness.  
You prune away thinking
and drop concentration
in with the compost. 
If you make the slightest effort,
it all becomes philosophy. 
So you sink into the furrow
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 names 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 sweet 
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 labor is done.
Who did it? Surely not you.
Others say, “She works too hard.”
Yet all you feel is sacred loss,
the thrill of drowning
in a river of gratitude.