There is no stillness,
really, ever, none
at all, even if
we still ourselves
and meditate,
caught up in
the presence
of this delicate now.

For everything is
moving, always
ever, in life and
in death, across the grand
expanse of the universe,
with its rotations,
and shaping tugs,
to the wriggling,
jiggling of atoms
colliding, and light
ever wispy and flowing, as
it always has been since
the ancient beginning.

Ever-moving is the motto
of matter, and for us
living beings of this stuff,
there is always growing, dying,
changing, touching,
as the body shifts, renews
and groans, and our lungs
fill with moving air
and our blood flows,
and our limbs push
against gravity and
the moving windy world,
and thoughts form a
river that we call thought,
as neurons fire in
the mystery of consciousness.

And our lives move on
calendars and schedules, as
we move to play, work, travel
and watch the movement on
screens that construct
the flow of our lives
from going down to sleep
and dreaming to the
race from rising that
consumes the sinews of our days.

Stillness is thus an illusion
or a form of relativity,
created as a space
which seems to have less
movement but nothing
stops this relentless
momentum that is life ,
that is death, that is
present in emptiness itself.