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.