Meaningless and Beautiful

Trying to live life is
like trying to write a poem -
totally fruitless.

There is no secret to life.
Living is the secret, 
and that is enough.

We can let lines
gently perk up 
from their dreamy soil,
and write them down,

likewise allowing life to
do its thing - you know
it will anyway -

so no need to grab
and rip the shoots out
like weeds.

Perhaps writing and 
living can both be
tended kindly,
with a heart

like that garden of
rainbow blooms 
whose names
I don't even know.

I don't really know 
about life either, or 
about dying or loving.

I only know 
that this tiny seed
is also the decaying log, 
deep in the green forest 
of hanging tendrils,
billowing softly
in the breeze 
of silence.

The mystery of what is,
incapable of being written,
nevertheless shines 
in the marriage of letters,
in their offspring - words -
like windblown

senseless, meaningless,
and beautiful.