The earth should be making some horrendous noise,
the rocks deep below its dirt-skin veneer
grinding with awful sidereal motion
as the planet spins its life through space,
stone cogs getting the job done
in a not-so-subtle manner
with minor deities, ugly and deformed,
throwing water on the turning stones.
But all is quiet.
The continents do not utter a sound
as they dip on a tilted axis
like a ballerina in a death spiral.
It is clockwork precision
untouched by human hands,
four billion years of alignment and symmetry,
fractals in the hands of a silent god.
I, too, turn in my everyday rounds
as I visit the post office, the drug store,
sit on the stairs and watch robins
hiding in the hedgerow.
At my best, I make no noise,
leave no footprints.
Even my sighs are caught up
by the invisible, omniscient wind.
The goal of art is to be still,
to observe and know that the clock hands are turning
as they should, or not, as the case may be.
It is the business of art to simply record the time.