The Way

The mother of all things – unadorned, unembossed –

from which all comes, into which all is tossed –

absolutely silent, it lets men have their say.

Now a certain sage decides to call it The Way.

Its attributes appear and it is lost.

When the attributes are lost, all else falls apart,

at which point recorded history gets its start.

How can we know it? Recover its worth?

Can it be remade by simply treading the earth?

Or has it been there all along behind the chart –

a paradise to which we’d like to wend,

a vast reservoir to which all things tend to tend,

the beginning of life, the beginning of death,

serener yet than an infant’s first breath,

a stillness in which we’d reach our appointed end?

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