To Be Still

The sound of awakening

in a century old house–

to the tune of coffee brewing

and the smell of dew breaking with the dawn–

is an orchestra of new life.


I gather myself at the oatmeal waiting for me on the stove,

in the ancient gullet of a micaceous pot,

and shake myself from sleep.


The dogs play in the din

of the mountain quiet.


I wonder if the  kittens born a week ago

under the wood pile have enough to eat.


I spoon myself breakfast

and sit down and stay

in the white morning light.


I think about the earth–

primal and still–

and this house built

with mud long before the idea of me

was whispered into waiting thought.


Quietude is my garment,

and I am rapt in thought.


What else is there to do on such a morning,

but to be still and listen?



2 thoughts on “To Be Still

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