Rustling like a beetle
in a dry thistle-stem,
quiet and intermittent
but not to be ignored;
without smell or flavour;
dry I said and unremarkable,
coming back again
to just what is.

Becoming would imply growth,
would mean memory
and modification, what
continues.
It is not like that:
out of nothing
comes what is,
which is no thing.

I would call it chance,
but that is not what it is.
An iteration, perhaps,
or a faint scratching not measured.
Not caused, or connected
without causes;
only the radiant isness
before what is.

(Mike Farley)