DOTR Lesson 2: Earth

Do not be selfish with your life.
Do not waste your days
inventing ways to change the world
to suit your small ideas.
Do this:
Go out under the open, cloudless sky
and listen to the silence of autumn.
Sit on the rock where once someone carved
a serpent and a star, worn now
by the rain and half-covered
with fallen leaves.
In the sun, your skin is hot
with the pulse of your blood.
In the shade, your skin is cool
with the tides of your breath.
And you are made of this,
flux and form, shifting
in the sunlight of the silent afternoon.
Do this:
Sit on the rock and watch
as the low sun moves
without moving
between the dark
columns of the trees.
Let the fly alight
on your upturned hand
and nuzzle your thumb
where it shimmers, the ridges
of your fingerprints rippling
under its furry, iridescent paws.
An eye studded with diamonds.
Wings translucent, opalescent,
like the cells of your body
woven through with black veins.
There is nothing that moves
in this world but this fly,
who comes and goes despite
the nearness of winter
and thinks nothing
but that the flesh of your body
is soft and sweet-smelling
and sturdy enough, and good.
Do this one thing:
do not be selfish with your life.
Do not imagine that this moment
is somehow less than the dreams
you carry with you, or the silence
into which the fly eventually
wanders, unafraid.
The sun slips behind another tree.
Look up and see, illuminated in
webs of twigs and tree limbs
against the shadowed hills beyond,
the same iridescent pattern
of the fly's wing
in the forest.
Bright twining world,
you do not owe us anything
but this.