Wednesday, February 6, 2013


I am being still this morning. Staunchly set under an afghan on the couch, superbly defending myself against the onslaught of day. Being still, silent, in a crease of folded dawn, the time before true light wraps the world and disturbs nights gentle song. Be still. Be still and listen. Be still and listen as the last blade edge of darkness glints with first light, and wants so much to run away and hide its cloaked and shadowed face. And yet it strains with the feeling of mourning the thought of giving up itself again, of being over run under the rolling tumble of day. But I will remain still. I will remain still and quiet to catch both the last easing sigh of night, and the first pillowed sounds of a new world beginning to bear fruit. "Catch me if you can!", I call out to the relentless sun, as I will stay as small and fine as a seed until its warmth penetrates me so far as I am compelled to split, drawing out the reluctant new growth planted in the warming earth. Be still. Be still as long as waiting shall have me. Silent. Listening. Until I hear the first soft footfalls of dawn moving up the stairs.
Be still.
Be still.
Be still.


Manna has not read this yet, so she doesn't quite get it. I'm working on her though.

1 comment:

claudia dixon said...

What a rich breakfast of metaphors. I counted 12--a poet's dozen. Better than pancakes with syrup. Instead of weighing you down it starts your day with lightness and being and promise. Thanks.