Echo From a Well

When anxiety threatens to quarter my body I take refuge in the tall blades of night; the dark sky drips down upon me, spilt ink seeping around little specks of light. I reach the centre of an open field, nature’s blushing cheeks drawn pale with snow; ice reflects the moon’s cold glare; misty spirits hover chilled with woe. From the black horizon I see an arching curve, a translucent dome encasing the earth; I wonder how long our snow globe will shake until it’s cracked or broken or lost its worth. I tell myself this world’s a stone suspended in the emotionless absence of air, where time ticks with a muted stroke, at once abundantly full and desertedly bare. That stone on which we reside, neither powerful nor grand, may be smaller than imagination can grasp, lost or organized among infinite grains of sand. If the world is that minute I might be less than microscopic. An insignificant pattern of energy Wondering who wove it and who will stop it. To me this news is comforting, not disheartening or unfair, for if in the grand scheme the world is trivial than our problems are nothing to compare. Maybe this galaxy is at the bottom of a deep and never ending well where no echo will carry our voice up high enough to tell. I leave the field again alone But akin to pink shades of dawn lingering in the space between morning and night wanting only to savor life until it’s gone.