Someone called it a Still Life,
odds and ends over the table poised in peace,
and yet, there is nothing still in it,
a mere pause before someone reaches out
and changed everything with a bit of work
or housekeeping, the chemistry of things,
thoughts becoming more.
So to you there is nothing still,
not even silence. Something is happening
even in peace.
About this poem
Things are always changing, even when they seem to be still.
That is good. That is dangerous. But it is never, truly, still.
This is where I could go into a long essay. But at times, it’s better to let the poetry speak, and let you create your own meanings.