Outside it snows.
There is ice in the mix. You can hear it
clicking on the windows.
On the street in front of the house, nothing moves,
rush hour lost in the pileup of small white flakes.
You work. Pen scribbles on paper.
Keys click on your computer.
Nothing changes, except the scenery, because of mere weather.
There is work to be done. Emotions to claw through.
God’s breath to be let in.
There are lessons to be learned
even in the silence,
perhaps especially in the silence.
A flat space.
These are the things that make up your day.
You need no plaque on the door,
no title, no artificial pretense or announcement
of who or what you are.
You miss the tightrope some days,
the spotlight and drumroll,
the magic tricks that were no magic at all.
But mostly, you are content to be what you are
in all it’s quietness and lack of pretense,
no longer a thing of space and time,
but of thought and spirit, words and light,
rising and falling without the audience,
invisible to the crowd, seen
only by the few whose souls are connected
About this poem
My life and work is radically different than it was for most of my adult life. Mostly, I like it.
The picture was taken at the Hancock Shaker Village.