We are Movement

We are movement, little more.
With sun, we may lay still,
but we are not still.
We are instead the sitting,
indeed, the hearing of wiser men,
all carefully inattentive,
each respectively reflective
of the doing and the being
that we will finally become
when we finally are done.

We are pushing shopping carts,
are forever waiting, are made
of lists and lines, lustfully defined,
and we are the thinking.
We are nails driven, boxes moved,
deliveries unintended, mute
monies cold and unrelenting.
We are the musts that must be used,
names purposely and privately
and piously removed.

And how our earthen hands attend
to the weed of thought within
and entered in our dusty minds.
Our eyes roam to fill time.
We are but movement of sands,
our clay packed about stone.
We are trumpets spouting out
songs of comfortable triumph,
but to what gain if our hearts,
the breath of God, is silence?