Contemplation

I am always on the verge

of deliciousness, diving deeper

into the now.  The old patterns

that once felt like chains are being

exposed to the air, to my gentle heart

sight.  Today I can stir the muddy 

waters, digging for what has been 

buried, and let go of the longing

for the tranquil pool

reflecting moonlight.

When monsters are buried, the stillness

is just a prelude for horror,

and the expectant stress is worse

than a simple archeological expedition

into the roots of my dilemma

and yours, for we are all connected

here, flummoxed by our blind impulses

stuck on repeat.

The morning is reserved for space,

no judgment, simply observing what is,

sitting in stillness at the side of the lake,

watching the slow parade of proud geese

and their six brave goslings, two racing

squirrels, mama rabbit and her bold bunnies,

two skittish ducks, a patient watchful

great blue heron now with a squirming 

bluegill.  A black water snake slides by, 

his wake an arrow pointing

to his tiny head.  The songbirds are celebrating.

Everyone is diving, clucking, singing,

hopping as I sit, fresh and alive,

free and dangerously available

to the future, finally downloading 

the insights that will 

impel me forward.

Inspired by the Rag Tag Prompt: Flummoxed

 

Published by

Victoria Stuart

I'm a poet, philosopher and inner seeker. A giver, lover and a healer who studies the heart.

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