I enclose myself with its sadness
with its long, weak, flimsy drooping arms,
tired from years of dangling.
Green curtains drifting lazily.
Glimpses of tight, piercing daylight swarming in,
gracing the life all around,
Gently dancing along the drowsy, barren, tufts of the Earth,
spreading magic to the darkest of crevices.
Time seems to stop.
It is still
I am still.
Nothing but the occasional tremor from nature’s breath.
As I sit in its darkness,
it’s protective realm,
I can’t help but wonder about those who have passed.
Maybe a hesitant toddler,
eager to try the cool crisp water and let it mold around him,
something new that’s drawing him forward.
Or maybe two lovers,
naïve and unafraid, gentle hands entwined,
hopeful, jumping, letting themselves fall.
Or perhaps an old woman,
tired from years of work,
back hunched, creased eyebrows,
knotted gray threads falling from her scalp.
And, I,
torn down from everything,
broken and broken by time,
am still.
And the world is still.
And I am ok, and I am safe, and I am warm.
And it is quiet.