by williamkupinse

All’s at rest, nothing is happening here.
Yellow grasses crows carried
laze and shimmer in the animated
still life of a disused wheatfield. 

All’s at rest, except the red worms
weaving their lattice work,
the pill bugs scattering the soil,
curling like armadillos at any small threat. 

Nothing’s happening here, but the red and white clover
stitching the ground, fixing
nitrogen with a saint’s patience:
Clover, trifolium, trinity; rhizobium, root of life. 

All’s at rest, except the ant scout’s curved antennae
ground-bent, divining intelligence.
Inches and a world above, the bees
hum and dance, skim data of their own. 

Nothing is happening, as the nuthatch
plucks the pokeweed’s acrid berry:
the land is dreaming with even breaths,
its mind washed in the milk of sleep.

All’s at rest; nothing is happening,
but the earth fixing its memories
of touch taste smell sound sight
and of all the other senses not yet named.