Sitting It Out

When I’m rushing around
like some demented bumble bee
from meeting to meeting
person to person –
feeding those fragmented illusions
of importance
when no-one will recall who we are
less than five years after our death,
exhausted but proud in our busyness
with no longer any time to notice
the snowdrops or daffodils
the laughter of a small child
the spring coming
with a cascade of birdsong,
its usual ordinary miracles –
when I can’t go on
because there aren’t enough hours in the day
and the nights are hollow with loneliness
and this echoing failure to be
I just sit, alone, empty
for sitting is the only place
where I’m at.