The Witness

The Witness watches the world
that has no end.

It hears the music curled
in the tiny buds
at the edge of tree limbs.

It falls into the dark eyes
of horses, uncoils
in the shimmering fibers
of mane and tail.

It stands a’top
the waterfall,
observes the flow, the spin
toward tributaries,
their many mouths wide open.

The Witness knows the nothing
from which all this sprouts.

All the craving minions
search for the Witness.

They cut and dig and scrape
at the surface
for many years.

When it appears within them,
as them, they’re reduced
to tears.

Bill Smith

By Bill Smith


Leave a comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *