Dowsing

My expectant writing state—
like listening for bird calls,
attempting to shovel a glimpse into the ditch
of what existence means.

But its just more ink—
more scrawlings on more notebook pages.
Or let me die!
The idea is, each moment

must be a reckoning
in which life’s deep intention is manifest.
But it’s never anything
but the chatter of a wren in the trees,

the ringing of wind chimes,

the soft purr of consciousness half asleep—
slow beating of my heart
that wants more.