In Good Repair

My sanctuary is guarded
by the half moon and bright flyers.

Two silver jets, a curious
parade to illustrate how things

travel in tandem, oblivious
to each other at separate

heights like two entire planes of
existence occupying the

same space. I am untroubled here,
no undercurrents, just this joy

surge of surf, the tide teasing out
our most mortifying foibles.

So I dare to emerge and be
seen, even celebrated, to

unwind, at peace. And now pulsing
a machine’s brazen claim of air,

jarring jeopardy to my calm.
In counterpoint, birdsong rises

weaving cacophony into
a healing of this broken field.

So many planes this morning, cold
and calculating the worth of

my tranquility. (None compared
to their imperative.) Ancient

memory, birds’ caretaking at
tree level and below, soothing

these harsh vibes, structuring the air
with precise sweetness. The barrage

of mechanical noise, distant
fuzzy highway, the neighbor’s car,

this thrumming motorcycle’s rev—
we pursue strident denial,

blare high-decible ignorance
and the birds give air to repair

our heedless noisy destruction,
certain soon we will get in tune.

Inspired by: Jeopardy, Memory, Surround and  Fuzzy.

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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