Observing, Existing, Myself Selfless

This is a long one, but as John Mayer put it, "It's better to say too much than never to say what you need to say."  I think I need my own Walden.  That's one for the bucket list.  

Once in my life

I would like to awaken

In a modest cottage

Empty

From ceiling to floor

Furnished in the Spartan style

Not a soul

Within the walls

Simply dawn filtering

Through

And me in an iron-frame bed

And a pretty blue nightgown

I would haul myself

Up and out of the black

Deep lake of subconscious

Softly

As taking a breath

The first puff of air in new lungs

Lie in the arms of my

Clean linen sheets

Gazing up at the ceiling

Listening

To birds without my window

And dust motes in the light

Then I would rise

Place the soles of my feet

On the wooden floor

Cold

With morning and warm

With past life

I venture into the kitchen

Where sit the two forks

Two knives and one

Spoon

Which I have inherited from

Thoreau, who was finished with them

But the hollow of my stomach

Cannot be filled by

Material sustenance and so I

Decline

The invitation of the pantry

And my small table

I am drawn instead

To the arch top door

With its picture frame

Window

And pretty black handle

And fingerprint nicks in its body

I ease it open

As gentle as a mother

Nudging her child to bed

Courteous

I peer out nose-first

To be sure the morning has finished dressing

The scent of the air

Good-naturedly defies

Any word in any tongue

Fists

Clench with the fresh clean new untouched

That cannot be captured in any net

It washes over me

The sunlight, the breeze

The opening flowers

Songbirds

In the crowns of trees

Inhabitants of their own perfect country

I lower myself

Onto the top stone step

Smooth my nightgown

Scrape

My toes in the dust

And watch it go on

It unfolds, or better

Unravels thread by thread

Of original colors

Revealing

All at once the grand

Web of life unburdened

I am in the center

Allowed so long as I

Make no motion

No

Disturbance, for I

Am merely a guest here

Two chairs sit like

Well-trained hounds

At either end of the

Table

One marked for me, the other

Reserved for small chance of company

The birds and the flowers

Need no chair, but

Have in eternal generosity

Offered

One to me so that I

May be comfortable

This cottage is my chair

I am a visitor

In the immaculate house of

God

Humbly I take tea

And share in the purity

The bees take my burdens

The green things my sorrows

The mice in the bushes

Scatter

My cares and shred them

To make nests

I sit on the stone

Grateful and empty

A prayer in my soul

Voiced

By myself unremitting

And a clear summer morning