Something like nothing

The mist lifts even as the pen writes the mist
and wet shoes on dewy grass press
the wet grass into wet ground. The mind makes living
out of it all and the people start getting
in the way. Of all things, nothing makes something

out of nothing and to nothing all things return and changed.
There, a bird slips through the arms of a tree
and, here, a tree takes emptiness away. Behind the poem,
the poem sighs and, behind the sigh, something dies.
Lean forward. Lean into. Lean away. The minds a living

out of the day. Then the mind makes something arise.