Not Yours. Not Mine.
Not in a place, not in a space,
Not a person, not a thing,
Not a ping or a pong,
Not the soundless sounding of a gong.
Not a word, surely not absurd.
You’ll not come across it in a book.
And you will find,
It is not yours, not mine.
It has no foes, woes, or toes.
There – off it goes!
It hates to sit.
Does not come in a kit.
Some think it illegit.
About to quit?
It’s a zone…where you are not alone.
It’s a ball…floating through us all.
It’s a climate…of refinement.
It’s a breeze…full of ease.
It’s changeable as the weather.
Totally untethered, soft as a feather,
Like a field of heather.
Nowhere does it dwell.
It’s like a well, but without the well.
Well, well, well…impossible to tell.
It is…it is…it is.
From Where This Path Begins by Bruce Fertman