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