Came across this while planning Lunar

The Poised Edge of Chaos Patricia Monaghan

Sand sifts down, one grain at a time,

forming a small hill. When it grows high

enough, a tiny avalanche begins. Let

sand continue to sift down, and avalanches

will occur irregularly, in no predictable order,

until there is a tiny mountain range of sand.

Peaks will appear, and valleys, and as

sand continues to descend, the relentless

sand, piling up and slipping down, piling

up and slipping down, piling up - eventually

a single grain will cause a catastrophe, all

the hills and valleys erased, the whole face

of the landscape changed in an instant.

Walking yesterday, my heels crushed chamomile

and released intoxicating memories of home.

Earlier this week, I wrote an old love, flooded

with need and desire. Last month I planted

new flowers in an old garden bed -

one grain at a time, a pattern is formed,

one grain at a time, a pattern is destroyed,

and there is no way to know which grain

will build the tiny mountain higher, which

grain will tilt the mountain into avalanche,

whether the avalanche will be small or

catastrophic, enormous or inconsequential.

We are always dancing with chaos, even when

we think we move too gracefully to disrupt

anything in the careful order of our lives,

even when we deny the choreography of passion,

hoping to avoid earthquakes and avalanches,

turbulence and elemental violence and pain.

We are always dancing with chaos, for the grains

sift down upon the landscape of our lives, one,

then another, one, then another, one then another.

Today I rose early and walked by the sea,

watching the changing patterns of the light

and the otters rising and the gulls descending,

and the boats steaming off into the dawn,

and the smoke drifting up into the sky,

and the waves drumming on the dock,

and I sang. An old song came upon me,

>one with no harbour nor dawn nor dock,

no woman walking in the mist, no gulls,

no boats departing for the salmon shoals.

I sang, but not to make order of the sea

nor of the dawn, nor of my life. Not to make

order at all. Only to sing, clear notes over sand.

Only to walk, footsteps in sand. Only to live.