Still

In meditation, the word pours tranquil

and pregnant, layered

significance.

I follow my breath

to the deep spaces

inward

relief from so-called reality,

the ephemeral

house of cards

that shudders

with the slightest sigh.

 

My grandson stacks metal

canisters filled with marbles

as high as his head,

says, Be careful,

resting the next

weight lightly

before the inevitable

crash, marbles

spilling in glorious cacophony

spinning whirls of color

glass spheres released from their cages

celebrating their rolls to freedom.

We’re silenced by splendiferous

chaos as they come to rest.

 

He looks up, sees me watching,

still

and he says, brightly,

“I’m sorry.”

Relishing his daring

reach,

I want to say, oh,

never apologize

for expressing vitality. 

This is true science:

curious experimentation

in which the investigator’s role

is embraced, purely evident.

“Hey, you know what towers do,”

I say gently, and

his serious face considers me

before he declares, “Fall.”

And all my suspicious pieces

— stilled by a doleful frost 

imposed by utter

terror

at any change

(classified as trauma) —

peer out in

wonder

at this powerful being

gathering shiny balls

in eager fistfuls, filling the tins

before stacking them

precariously

once more.

Inspired by:  Classified, Doleful, Suspicious, and Frost.

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Published by

Victoria Stuart

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

10 thoughts on “Still”

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