Nothing happened. And this was good.
Trees stood freely next to trees.
When a lot happened,
(confusing youth! made more confused by learning!)
not much happened which I understood—
and much of it caused pain. Not understanding it.
Plus the uncomfortable wind and rain.
Experience of disappointment (and all unpleasant things),
with it a certain tranquility, and even wisdom, brings
until “nothing happens” becomes the best
thing that can happen. As I rest,
thinking of you, my feeling for you and you
separate from each other—as if the composer were no longer inspired.
Did anything happen in this poem?
Or were writer and reader in love? Or holding each other? Or tired?
Let me adjust my pillow (it’s made of wood)—
and repeat myself. (In life I was mostly afraid.)
Nothing happened. And this was good.
Not only good. It might be paradise.
Nothing happening, whispers
the wise god, is so nice.