Nothing Could Be Something: Day 22
by Lesley-Anne Evans
The robins in the Mountain Ash
were as drunk as usual that time of day, diving
into the stagnant swimming pool to dunk and flap.
What a ruckus.
The flicker had returned to drum
her petition of holes
into the prayer hut walls. Inside me,
silence.
It happened a couple of days ago
as I sat quarantining
in my room, staring at the sky,
and heard nothing.
Maybe I stopped trying. Nothing called to me.
No word of wisdom, no intention, no revelation
of a new or sustained spiritual practice
that might transform my life.
No promises were made,
no regrets noted.
In that word-thought-time-hush, sun sprung
through the window into my spring hungry arms
and touched my cheek.
"Is this peace?"
I may have asked, but the question was there
and gone so quickly.
Later still—Ponderosas with their backlit vibrations
like tongues of fire on the edge of the wild April blue—
an answer, perhaps?
Or, there was no answer.
Or, there was nothing.
Lesley-Anne Evans
an Irish-Canadian poet, writes from Feeny Wood, a contemplative woodland retreat in Kelowna, B.C., on the unceded ancestral territory of the Syilx Okanagan people. Her debut poetry collection Mute Swan, was published by The St. Thomas Poetry Series (Toronto), in 2021. Lesley-Anne has been commissioned to write libretto and lyrics for opera and cantata. Her work has appeared in literary journals, and has been awarded and anthologized. Read more about Lesley-Anne and Feeny Wood.
