Chop wood, carry water, sing;
all about the same, I think.
Every word, blow, or step the same, I think.
Perhaps I should think less but carry wood
or chop water feel the same
to me, feel like my song.
The pen shall be at once axe or bucket;
the words written in cuts upon the logs
shall leak music.
As for splitting chunks
(looking at the grain and picking your spot)
or pouring the water out when you get there
(careful not to slop too much over), which of those
is not also worth a song?
Sing, then. Do not speak of singing.
Carry water, and sing; chop wood, and sing;
don’t stop to talk of these things.
It became clear
that arriving at a last good place
would never happen
under my own power,
so I surrendered
and decided to put myself
into an unaddressed envelope
to see where I might end up.
Once inside I sealed it behind me
and kept pushing
until I reached the far corner.
The light within was a paradox:
it got brighter the farther I went;
at the end it was more blue
than the sky I’d forsaken
to get here.
I could hear the mail carrier
approach heavy stepping,
singing; and I flattened myself
to fit, excited to see
where I’d end up;
then I remembered
that I’d never felt anyone do anything
to the outside — no address, not even
a return label, and no postage.
I’m still here and still
I remain elated as I am carried
out into the world, knowing
that when I arrive and burst through
it will likely be be dimmer there than
it is in here, but then again
it may not be, and until then it’s
perfect here in the far corner
of the envelope; even when
I close my eyes, I can feel the light.