Not a ghazal

Water cuts rock all the way downhill
with no strain on itself.

Wind turns leaves all at once,
or do the leaves turn themselves?

When the moon moves the ocean
the earth changes without troubling itself.

Wool grows long. We feel the need to shear it.
Before we saw them, sheep governed themselves.

Walls and bridges rise and obscure the fact
that there was no need for them till we troubled ourselves.

What does the tree feel as it grows?
Nothing, it tells us. Is there a truth it keeps for itself?

When I imagine peace in the center of this
I am happy enough until I notice myself.

When I dream, I break a sweat. Water
runs down my face. Wind cools me. I reproach myself.

Willing as I am to be still at the core, I cannot be
the wind and wave without rejecting myself.

Why not, then? Why not turn my face from working
toward the path of no effort? Why not be myself?

When I sit with that, I feel unloved.
I will not enjoy myself.

When I work, I feel removed.
All day, I remove myself.