by a slow erosion of peace.
Good things, mostly,
just too many, too fast,
your enclaves of quiet,
so carefully crafted,
are gracefully undone.
Even in the midst of it all,
Choiceless, you need
to feel the breath enter your lungs. You need
to hear the ocean over the din of motorcars
and early summer crowds. You need
to see the zen of ocean stones scattered on the sand.
You need to empty your soul,
make room for God,
About this poem
As a poem, this would likely be better if I had stopped at the end of the first stanza. But since I use poetry more as a way of working out my head than as art. (Any art is almost accidental.), you got the second stanza too.
So, how do you all feel, being my therapist? I am grateful for you, each and every reader.
PS: The picture was taken Thursday at Hampton Beach, NH.