coming to my senses

When I begin talking

How do I know

Exactly what to say?

Do I ever finish a thought?

Or is life one long thought,

Interrupted by sleep

and other distractions?

Or maybe it’s the thoughts

That distract from being?

Without thoughts, life would be feeling

My way along by

Seeing (but not describing),

Hearing (but not interrupting),

Touching (but not labeling),

Smelling (but not guessing),

Tasting (but not critiquing).

Just as the blind woman walks

With her wooden antenna,

I would flow through life

By coming to my senses.