When you reach the still point, at any time
of day, there you discover everything.
And, curiously, there's not a word or sign
that issues from it, all with it to bring
that begs no motion you reciprocate.
Stay still, and walk with trees, or farther still,
the clouds, enjoin their pace commensurate;
or a lake's surface, to its tension thrill
soundless as a ripple, or lake bird screech,
whose perfect counterpart is silence still,
together bound; you will find that to reach
the still point is the world itself to fill,
nothing to miss, and view all aggregation
that smothers this, the world's exaggeration.