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What is worth making
given all
we have not found?

The ideas that sit
on this landscape
are disruptions, one by one.
Here another claim on eternity,
there a refusal.

Nothing we make
is worth keeping.
Yet we are makers of things,
that’s our conceit.

Understanding
is what’s there
when I’m not.
Sky sliding past.

As compulsive actors,
the challenge
worthy of our minds
is passivity.

I think
this is something

changing oneself
from mind
into matter.
A rock, into the hand,

does not grow.
It only
has divided

Wherever I am, the world comes after me.
It offers me its busyness. It does not believe
that I do not want it. Now I understand
why the old poets of China went so far and high
into the mountains, then crept into the pale mist.

–Mary Oliver

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