in the nothing of Martin we can 
pay attention to our thinking 
our reading    our writing 
because in Martin there is nothing else to do 
but pay attention 

to the nothing of mist rising 
east past the window 

the nothing of vines twining 
around threads of trunks of new  trees 

the nothing of pellet sounds 
intermittent in the black 
pinging, slipping on the gutters 

the nothing of squirrels scrabbling on the roof 

the nothing of silence in a house 
when only I am at home 
the ink of my pen as black as morning 
lifting outside the window 
routine sounds 
of a house at work 
water heater    air conditioner 
the dryer tumbling to halt