A Lotus Position
The act of cleaning is never done,
a verb of renewal, an adjective of change.
Something is always being replaced,
as small as the tap trickling with water is
as I wash my hands with suds of soap,
as profound as the Heraclitan statement is,
that one cannot step twice into the same river.
I choose not to see this as a conveyor-belt-life,
I want instead to believe in the transformative cycle,
the miracle of the molten rose, the ash and dust;
the resurgence of spring, Aprilís resurrection,
the sun that dances in the sky by noon,
that offers a shimmering portal to heaven,
where in the distance the tarmacadam is treacle.
The sweetness of an apple just eaten lingers,
its acid tingling, the whole digestive system in flux
proving a momentary distraction from the thinking mind,
as thighs acknowledge the support of the chair,
as soles take refuge in the wooden floor.
The heart never stops beating. We are wound up beings.
Our singing fingertips crave starlight.
Our palms must always be open.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Orla Fay would be pleased to hear them.