Becoming the Stones
A few moments before dawn.
Before the animals begin to stir.
Before the coffeemaker starts to perk.
You do not see this time of day so often.
With age and depression came a need to sleep
more than you once did.
But this morning, you are restless. You woke,
a mind full of memories of love and loss and
lists of work left to be done, a plague
on your ability to sleep. So you woke, Walked
outside into the silence. A world waiting.
You breath in the still air.
It is heavy. Moist. There is a storm in the air,
somewhere just beyond your vision.
No matter. You have lived through storms before.
Felt the wind and roar of thunder,
felt the earth beneath your feet shake
as lightning struck close by. So close
your hair bristled. And yet, afterward,
you still stood. Sometimes amidst rubble.
So, breathing the air, you know what is coming.
But it is not here yet. No. It is still,
and rather than anticipate the storm.
you absorb the stillness. Become the stones.
Strong. Sure. Eternal
if only for the moment.
About this poem
The best thing that came out of my darkest times is an ability to live in the moment. It is a transformative skill.
The picture was taken at the quarry across from my house.