winter's last breaths

Nothing left

by Bobby Lefebre

And when there is nothing left to do but live,
let us retire the noise,
and build a home inside the stillness.

Grab a wrench and unfasten the parts of you
that have become mechanical;
rest your weary limbs in the bed of anomaly.

Outside,
the machine is powering down.
You can hear the birds when the gears aren't grinding.

When there is nothing left to do but live,
make a vacation of your body;
each part explored, a stamp on your passport.

Begin with your heart, maybe?
Crawl inside and sightsee,
ask difficult questions about who it is, and why.

Outside,
the machine is powering down.
You can hear yourself when the gears aren't grinding.

When there is nothing left to do but live,
simply show up;
that has always been enough.
And together in this sudden strangeness,
radical imagination will run wild;
tomorrow being built today.