Robert Fulton Laird

Nothing Done

Well, well, what have we here
like ants we’re scrambling everywhere
inter-twining thoughts like stitching
while up above, two balls keep switching

As daily, constant, below our skies
another thousand of us dies
another day, our tiny plans
till night, our selfishness expands

We scream or smile, sleep and wake
we eat, work, breathe and in time, take
predict, progress, impose our will
feel not, what it is to be still

Know not, what ease or oneness mean
trust not the flow, but what is seen
until it all becomes a mesh
of what we crave, trapped in the flesh

Yes, kind at times, but senses driven
owing not, assumed forgiven
tricked again, by what is new
we fail, ask history, still no clue

Then, slightly older, no longer wager
so, so smart, too late for nature
we tally up fast, all the fun
use what we’ve left, to get more done

Such bad examples, our outward plea’s
depend not in, like birds and bees
make our bad good, what’s good turns bad
want more, better, and faster had

Until we pass, with nothing done
that matters to —a setting sun