(Part of a thread to share poems or poetry-adjacent writing as discussed here.)
I sit quietly
without any phone service
at my south office
which is my shorthand
for this cliff with this vista
of greens, blues, and grays.
Each time I come here
(not very far from my house;
it’s half an hour’s drive,
less than checking stocks,
less than one day’s email spam
or three news segments)
if it’s not too hot
with nobody shooting guns,
not too many bugs,
then I always think:
why not come here every day?
But I rarely do.
A smart guy once said
if you can’t find ten minutes
a day to be still
you are probably
losing your mind. You might
even think of this place
(when you are running
too hard, too fast, or just through
too much damn bullshit)
as a sort of food,
water, basic self-defense,
antibiotics.
Kierkegaard once said
people are sure to notice
losing things like legs,
spouses, fifty bucks,
or many other such things,
while the greatest threat—
losing one’s self—
may pass by so quietly
it seems like nothing.