The Chinese ladies come to the garden each morning.
They circle a CD player placed in the center,
and slowly move their bodies in time to the music,
which seems to come from another world.
The Chinese ladies look like flamingos,
delicately perched on one leg one moment,
and like frozen action figures the next.
Then, starting again, they move to a pace
not aligned with the hurried world around them.
I sometimes go to the gym and see
people churning on their bicycle machines,
running in place on treadmills,
straining at heavy weights at various stations.
By contrast, how peaceful the Chinese ladies seem,
how content they appear in their liquid movements.
Why do I spend my time running from place to place,
accomplishing nothing?
I only have to watch the Chinese ladies
who come to the garden each morning,
and realize my sense of purpose and timing
is off by much more than a few seconds.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME