The Garden

It's not unusual to feel that way sometimes,

All the glamor and panache of sexy clamor,

And yet in your mind, you are simply calm,

Like the sea when no wind is blowing,

An observing that we make like a camera,

Detecting motion and clueing ourselves,

With the tiny particulars of issues, excitable,

And yet without the slightest attraction,

To our impulses or our need to respond,

As if watching a machine functioning.

Where such moments are spliced between

The many activities of the day, sometimes,

We come to realize that rare gem of insight,

Into the nature of activity of our lives.

That we experience life in a particular design,

That highlights its contact with our bodily needs,

That reality relies along the way, on our pleasures,

To which we create a clandestine collaboration,

And knowledge is what it is on account of it,

For the mind sees that and creates an acquiescence,

To set aside intelligence on such occasions,

For the body to plan its route on a map,

That best optimization of all of what we want.

To rest in this, we need to define it as real,

Then accept it as a norm in the mind's perceptions.

Like the style of the flower resting on its ovary,

Nondescript, quiet and engaging no ceremony,

Yet is phallus in the garden for all life around.