Nobody knows what it is to be alive

or at least there is no description 

to satisfy all parties, as to when

the lights are on and why we’re 

any more conscious

than this rubber plant, say,

or for that matter this table

or bent wood chair.

 

They call this the hard problem,

the one the best academics

can’t plough their heads through,

that leaves us with only best guesses

as to what that feeling might be,

 

the one that rides within you

on bright mornings in spring

where all the pieces of the world

seem to rise up as part 

of some greater orchestration.

 

Where the chorus of birds, 

the percussion of feet,

the horns of the shining traffic

and even the rubber plant,

nodding by the open window,

seem happy and alive to the 

rhythm of their own existence.