To be still

in a perpetual motion world, to keep silent

when chatter is comfort, noise like salvation,

to look inward when outside

people scurry,

to look inward

despite what they say.

To retreat into forest,

speechless until the voice grows rusty,

watch sunlight move snail-like across leaves

from the hammock,

breath caught in a snare of wonder,

to listen deeply

as shudders of history fade

like an afternoon storm,

is to walk counter-clockwise

unwinding time.

Stillness is equated with illness.

Rest in peace means death.

Trees know better,

their ceaseless rings spiralling

from the core.

In the hiss of dusk,

cicadas throb with meaning,

moon winks her crooked grin.

Never underestimate

the passion

of pause.

Laura Jan Shore from Breathworks, Dangerously Poetic Press, 2002