For Marcus Cumberlege
It took me sixty-five years of busyness
Before I saw I need do nothing,
And in making no effort
Found I was busy doing,
And in learning to draw like a child
I had to unlearn all my schooling,
But in unlearning I first had to inhale
The afternoon stink of the classroom.
Truly, for everything there is a season
And every season will give way to the next,
But a sudden hopeful breeze can sweep away
Any heap of leaves and reveal the raw earth beneath.