"The formless moves freely always and everywhere”

Morning's trees frosty green, the pond gray; a council
of ducks floating, loudly quacking, one paddles away.

Sitting by a waterfall thinking that being is a burden
we assume before knowing its consequences; and
then we find, “the unbearable automaticity of being.”

The manner of a poet’s curiosity is questioning moods
and motives, risking balance, by writing along a string
of metaphors constantly in peril of falling into the Void.