The Still Point

Clearly —
What feels like waiting —
Before anything seems to happen —
Is not emptiness —
But an unmoving span
The very span in which all events
Coordinate and converge —
For this something, or that something
To appear

And what but convergence
Is happening now —
At every span

From outside in
The entire universe gathers
Into the point of consciousness —
Which, when it looks outward
Sees divergence
Things movings away, apart

Sitting here, if I imagine
What might be a month or year hence
And wonder how it could be brought forward
Or pushed afar

Or if I recall what happened years ago
And how it might have been avoided
Are not these thoughts and imaginings
Themselves acts of convergence

My desire for particular outcomes is, on one hand
A form of convergence itself
On the other
A wish that convergence takes a particular shape
At some future time

In other words, desires assumes that the universe
Through converging at every instant
Might somehow forget to converge —
Or to include my particular benefit when it does

My desires cannot fathom
What would follow for all, everywhere
Were the universe to converge
So as to manifest my wish

Furthermore, desire for a future event —
Assumes time —
Assumes that my actions, or those others
Will determine how the universe manifests later

But that future — is it not already here —
At the exact centre where I am
Where all already is

Are not future, present and past
Simultaneously unfolding, refolding, withdrawing —
This very instant

Imagining time —
A conceptual realm in which
At a point distant from here
I picture fulfilment or failures
Convergence or divergence —
Events and actions, causes and effects —
Conforming to my way
Or not-my-way

While — all the while —
Here and now
All the seen and unseen realms
Have come together in me
For this entire universe
To spring forth —
Out of me
Before me