This Is Not Now

This is Not Now

Movement behind an upright tree
gathers my eyes up, to the ravine,
looking close to see two squirrels
playing their part, alive and combining

with me, each other, and even others
comprising a thing that could be named
“Living things amongst the ravine.”

Their deliberate movements,
stark in the cold, defines the dead cold,
awakens and warms me, returns my attention
to the pen-point dancing before my eyes,

I journalize—

synthesize a moment from a smaller moment
and a smaller moment still—
until I then realize that even time is comprised.

Assembled of was and will and now,
dependent upon their infinitely long
and infinitely small subsystems—
This is not now, and neither is this.

To the point:
Form is emptiness, and
emptiness, form.