Tuesday Poem

To appreciate the isness of being
is the luckiest of pleasures

4 P.M.

The way the snow is slick,
flat and dully light, and
the trees stand still
in the simple shapes of themselves.

How nothing moves right now
in in-between light
that only means itself.
I love this time of day,

the silence of this empty house—
dishes lying on the rack,
lamps unlit, fruits round
and obtuse in the bowl.

The mannerly way
the pot is on the stove,
how the plants don’t know
they are growing.

by Gene Zeiger
Leaving Egypt
White Pine Press, 1995