Perfect Rest

The sunlight moves through the trees. A light breeze moves the leaves. People eat their lunches among an intricacy of others, tables, chairs, bicycles, grass, leaves, colors in motion, great beauty, sun-glint, and, sitting, a part of it, I think that I’ll stay here for a long while. Beautiful women come, eat, and gaze alone as if only to be spoken to. A great sadness is here—my sadness. Shall I decide to speak to one? Why? Why not? I reason between desire and fear that since I wouldn’t take advantage our meeting would threaten neither her nor me. Why not enjoy her company? Why not? Why not sit here forever? The shadows of the leaves move more quickly than the heart.

29 October 1980