Passing through Somehow

It gets still, and something attractive
Seeps into it that takes a short while
To notice. If disrupted, it’s gone,

And everything’s back to dailiness,
To busyness. But if it lingers,
It settles, a calm that’s not the calm

But the sense of other dailiness,
Mundanity of another kind.
The elements may be itemized—

The self-dried flowers of the rabbitbrush
Still on the stalks, the old snow seeping
Into fresh mud, the fields of blonde straw—

Or anthropomorphized, as the sun
Arranging its skirts in the meadows,
Rocks cracking their knuckles with the thaw—

But it can only be felt as what’s being,
Taking no notice of its being
Or being noticed, passing, somehow.